Sonic the Hedgehog: The Defender of America
by AmericaverseLegendarium
Summary: The next generation of American heroes is here. Battle-hardened patriot, Sonic the Hedgehog, fights the forces of Communism across the galaxy to protect our righteous stars and stripes. Rated T for heavy amounts of freedom.
1. Sonic, Defender of Freedom

Sonic flew through time and space on his signature Harley Davidson™ motorcycle, channeling his hormonal teen frustrations and bodily fluids into his guitar, which he appropriately named "Freedom". He thought back to a simpler time, when he was but a small teenager on the space colony of Kentucky's moonbase, which orbited the planet America II. He made an honest living as a lumberjack, relishing every slice of his axe, chopping away until he was pure of heart. All he had to guide him was the Holy Book, and a tattoo of a bald eagle on his left bicep, which when flexed would make the eagle soar majestically across his bulging, vein-throbbing arm.

He remembered the day he was chosen by the goddess Anne Frank to be the defender of Freedom, one of the finer moments of his childhood. His guitar was a gift, originally forged by Abraham Lincoln wearing the Ancient Celestial Tiger War Garb, the very same armor worn during the battle of Emancipation Proclamation. During this grievous battle, Lincoln was sealed in a prison of amber by John Wilkes Booth, one of the six unholy lieutenants of yore that were hunted to extinction. Anne Frank gave him this guitar, so he could one day protect the freedom and liberties of his people.

A single American tear fell from his eye and a golden river filled his crisp blue jeans as he played a song on his guitar of his feelings, singing all of the words of the holy book backwards, forwards, and sidewards. Although the year was 7980XX, Sonic knew there was only one true 80's deep in his inner fibers. Was it destiny? Was he chosen to carry this burden? No. But yet he did, as any true patriot would. Signifying the end of his puberty, a mighty forest of hair spread across his finely toned chest and abs, and all who were there could have sworn they heard the echoing cries of a Bald Eagle.

His journey of self discovery was now over, but a greater challenge awaited him. He heard the sound of Indie Music, a thing so unamerican it could make even the mighty eagle shed a tear. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw them. Hundreds of mopeds and segways, ridden by festering, disease ridden new-age hipsters garbed in the cosmic space armor. From their head they wore metal fedoras, on their armor they donned raiments of ironic sayings, and in their soul they donned nothing. For they were not touched by grace, but rather, by sin.

They came from an outer lying galaxy where no grace dwell, a festering hole where sodomy thrived. And where sodomy thrives, dark things shall prosper, as they were ruled by a loathsome behemoth in which they worshiped. They swung chains of rusty metal, driving circles around the American Hedgehog and hogtying him like some sort of hog. Sonic showed no fear, pulling Freedom out of his fanny pack and beginning to play.

"If you're going to act like a bitch, you're going to die like a bitch. _It's time to rock the fuck out!_" The hedgehog guffawed at their nignorance, and in that moment he could have sworn he saw the spirit of Abraham Lincoln descend upon him, slicing the fuck out of their foes with his axe. It didn't do anything besides look cool because he was a ghost. The sky was showered with meteors of red, white, and blue. The foul creatures strode back into the wicked void in which they came, though they would be back. Abe rested his pulsating hand on Sonic's shoulder, staring into the waters of his murky blue eyes.

"Sonic, I am sending a mighty steed to fetch you. He is Freedom-Song, mightiest of the Eagle lords in the Americaverse. Meet me at Liberty 9, my orbiting space station, on the eve of July 4th, the only day in which all seven galaxies are aligned at once," Abe stated honestly with the fervor of ten thousand eagles in heat. Sonic smiled the kind of smile you have when something bad happens and you try to be positive about it anyways as Abraham faded away, looking into the stars to see the steed Abe sent. It was a giant Eagle for most, but to Sonic, it was just the right size.


	2. A Tomb of Liberty

The eagle soared across the cosmic entanglement of the 9th dimension, relishing the howling screams that only it could hear as it destroyed quadrants of planets with nothing more than a quantum pulse emitter and good old American ingenuity. Sonic had more pressing matters to ponder, trying to think of why the demigod Abraham "Liberty" Lincoln would summon him. He had heard the legends of Honest Abe, everyone had.

It was foretold in ancient texts that he would fuck a grizzly bear to death and free the slaves all before his breakfast steak. Abe was probably the goodest good Sonic was ever going to lay his eyes upon. Just thinking about it made his prosthetic genitals hewn from machine guns become erect, slicing a planet or two in half from their throbbing girth.

Sonic laid his face upon the Eagle's exposed flesh, feeling it pulsate with the hopes and dreams of all Americans. The righteous steed like that of a dream arrived at the orbiting space station of Liberty 9, tomb of Honest Abe. Built of a thousand log homes and imbued with the demonic blood of the slaves that he had freed, for they were not ever truly free, because Abraham had power over all that lived and sexed.

"This is as far as I'll take you, star child. I have business to attend to on Canada's moonbase," The eagle cawed in its angelic voice, for a patriot's work was never done. Sonic approached the door of the moonbase, grinding his sweaty, bare body against its frame, getting splinters all in his flesh. Though he didn't mind, thinking back to the wise words of his father when he broke his leg while trying to mount his first virgin Grizzly Bear. "_It builds character_".

The door was opened by a diminutive figure that rode in on a wheelbarrow, for he had no legs. "I am the Little Kim Jong, my master is waiting for you," said the pathetic, subhuman, servile being, likely a slave. Sonic was no stranger to this, owning many slaves in his childhood, of which he would sacrifice daily to appease the godess Anne Frank. He thought about his friend Tails, and how he was slain while trying to deflower his first virgin Grizzly. He never liked Tails.

Sonic and Little Kim Jong waltzed through the grand halls of Lincoln the Honest's final resting place, admiring every finely sculpted detail of his moonbase. The heads of grizzly bears were stacked in a pile in the center of the hall, burning in a glorious fire that supplied heat to the entire Americaverse.

When Sonic becomes a dying old man, looking back on his life and achievements, he would be proud knowing that he lived to see this glorious moment. He would turn to the doctor and say, "I'm ready to die, you bastard. Pull the plug," and then he would be dead, knowing with the eternal knowledge that he had lived to see the most precious things in life.

They finally approached a larger than life statue of Abraham Lincoln, although it wasn't a statue, but rather a tomb. And it wasn't a tomb either, but rather a congregation of laser beams forming a pack of surfing wolves making sweet, American love inside of an astral fuckflame the likes Sonic had only read in books. Except Sonic didn't know how to read.

"Master must play a song to awaken those that are dead_,_" instructed Little Kim Jong in the most unamerican, yellow skinned way possible, only to receive a stern slap from the American hedgehog. This was followed by a giggle from Jong. Sonic took out Freedom, beginning to play a song on his guitar that could wake the dead. He used this song only once on his friend Tails after his death, only so he could watch him get slain by a Grizzly Bear twice. He really didn't like Tails.

The tomb exploded as Abe the Honest's ears caught wind of the music. Blood began erupting from his mouth. And he laughed. He laughed forever. Abe's finely toned skin was regrown from the precipice of nothingness, Sonic continued to rock the fuck out until his entire body was resurrected. Abraham was a glorious sight to behold, one of his hands a chainsaw made of flesh and the other a guitar.

Abraham grabbed Little Kim Jong and stuck him between his lips, pulling out his lighter and burning him alive, smoking the tiny fuckling like a mighty blunt. He then threw Jong's corpse on the ground, stomping on him until he was nothing but ashes. He got what he deserved.


	3. The Two Heirs of Lincoln

Abraham Lincoln, who was entombed in the Ancient Celestial Tiger War Garb, unzipped his pants and placed his guitar over Sonic's shoulders. "I hereby dub you _Sonic Lincoln_, you are now my son and heir as the prince of the Americaverse. As long as I still draw breath, you shall rule beside me in blood," Abe Lincoln said in his booming, masculine voice that hearing alone was enough to make you lose your virginity. He spoke with a single tear in his eye, but no more than that, because then it would be gay.

"Thank you father," Sonic Lincoln whimpered, coming close into his father until they were touching. Moments like these Sonic lived his life for. The Americaverse may be a sinful place, but the little good there was is worth fighting for. Freedom, liberty, barbeques, playing your guitar by a gasoline fire. These were the things, as the chosen guardian of freedom, Sonic was born to protect.

Then, they heard it. The booming, echoing, wailing sounds of godless creatures that Sonic dared not even imagine. The hisses and growls grew louder and louder, and the door leading into the tomb was shaken by its handles. "Quickly my son, help me barricade the door!" Abe rasped, tearing off his shirt and lifting the virgin grizzly bear heads out of the fire, stacking them against the hinges of the door to keep it closed.

Sonic tore off his shirt as well, even though he wasn't wearing a shirt. The hedgehog picked up Little Kim Jong's corpse, even though his father killed the fuck out of it, using it to clamp the door shut. Abraham Lincoln then turned into a train and rode circles all around the room. Though, even the artful crafts of two sweaty patriots was not enough to keep these demon spawn out of their inner sanctum. Hoards of dark skinned creatures covered in blisters, warts, bruises, and dried horse blood poured into the tomb. So many that Sonic didn't know how many there were in number form because he couldn't count.

A lone creature garbed in Baby Zombie Hitler's Golden Armor and a backwards hat stepped forward, the spokesman of the hoard. Surely a hybrid dybbuk spawn of a virgin American woman and one of the Unholy Lieutenants of the Communist Party slain long ago in battle. "Hipsters, what loathsome creatures from a land where all scream for naught. What authority do you have to treat with me, tiny fucklings?" Boomed Abraham Lincoln, swathed in his speaking robes and doo-rag.

The creatures answered not, for they could not speak the traditional American tongue. They donned weapons of clubs and knives, and even the heinous torture device invented by Eddie of the Clan Murphy in moon year 16799X, a wooden board with a nail in it. Though, the creatures were hideously outmatched, for they believed not in the use of firearms, shunning the American way like a slag shuns the poor.

Sonic and his father pulled out their machine guns and mounted their Harley Davidson motorcycles, driving to and fro, carving a path through the vile spawn. One of the beasts got lucky, slicing a gash upon Abraham's genitals, making them bleed red, white, and blue. Although the patriots escaped the tomb and the trial of the hipster spawn was long behind them, Abraham suffered from blood loss, losing control of his metal steed and collapsing upon the ground.

"F-Father!" Sonic whispered very loudly, so it wasn't actually a whisper at all. "Star child, leave me here. I will find a way to escape, but you must find my son, he will know what to do and give you a quest. He was born from a marriage I would like to forget. S-Sonic, the first virgin grizzly bear I deflowered did not die, it gave birth to an heir of all things good and holy. _H-His name was-_" Abraham began to speak, only to be grabbed by his legs and pulled into the darkness by hipster spawn.

He did not kick or scream, though this time, he dropped down two large tears. On Sonic's home world of Kentucky's Moonbase, it was taught that as a final American goodbye, you would allow two tears to fall from your eye. A technique first invented by the artful hands of the mythical George Washington, the god of the Americaverse.

Sonic did the same, driving into the stars on his Harley Davidson motorcycle. Though he was not as strong of a patriot, bursting into a righteous river of tears as he looked back at Liberty 9 one last time, watching it explode in a holy astral fuckflare.


	4. Strongzor the Dinosaur Slayer

Sonic cried for atleast five whole hours, the only amount which is culturally acceptable for the death of a holy visionary and a savior in his culture. He landed upon an asteroid and carved Abraham's initials into his motorcycle, using one of his own teeth he ripped out of his mouth. Not that he cared, he had more.

He rode his Harley Davidson like a righteous metallic steed, bopping his head to the beat as he rocked out while soaring through space. He thought back to how he and his friend Tails would do this in their youth, before Sonic pushed him into a virgin grizzly bear sanctuary. He really hated Tails. Sonic was interrupted while rocking the fuck out as he trod into forbidden space, Harley Davidson motorcycles flew left and right and missiles shot from their headlights as they fought savage dinosaurs on the battlefield.

They were mounted by freedom-hating, flag burning Arabs that were swaddled in pale robes that cloaked their faces and nothing else, for they feared all that was good and holy and shunned the truth like the spawn of Satan shuns the teat of an Angel. This was the most American of all pastimes. "You don't just interrupt an American man while he's rocking out," Sonic thought aloud. "What the hell".

As any hairy patriot would do, Sonic mounted his mighty motorcycle steed and drove into the battle to fight alongside his outnumbered brethren. He unzipped his pants, allowing his machine gun genitals to be freed from the prison which bound them for so many a year. His loins thirsted for blood, brutally tearing and shredding apart all that crossed their path. Sonic was smarter than the average bear, signalling for the other space bikers to follow him as he drove up the back of Pube-Slayer, the king of all Dinosaurs.

The brotherhood slew the Arabs mounted upon the dinosaur and then stabbed the righteous beast with their chainsaw guitars, slaying the fuck out of it. The head biker removed his helmet hewn from wolverine skulls, revealing the face of a rugged bear-like man whose face beheld many a battle. His rugged skin the casualty of many wars, and in his eyes was the shadow of his innocence, shivering in a corner like a tiny hipster fuckling. Long lost to the sinful world he fought to protect.

"I am _Strongzor_, slicer of one thousand godless beasts, Lord of Detroit's moobase. For many a year my ancestral homeland has been invaded by these foul, flag-burning gremlins of which I share my hatred. Though, you may call me _Micheal Jordan_, my birth name of which I share with no one besides everyone," Said Michael, giving Sonic a firm American hug, followed by three pats on the back just to be thorough.

"And I am Sonic, protector of the Americaverse. I was accompanied by two others, a slave and a demigod. Perhaps you know the man of which I speak, Abraham Lincoln," Sonic explained, hanging his head in shame that he could do nothing to save his adoptive father.

"...Abraham was my father. You may not think it be like it is, but it do. He abandoned me in my youth to protect our holy country. I was raised by my mother, a grizzly bear. I had a fine country upbringing, as any decent, upright American should," explained Michael, trying to look away from Sonic's icy blue gaze. "Then, perhaps it would vex you to know that he was slain in battle. A hoard of subhuman hipsters killed the fuck out of him. It was pretty brutal," Sonic continued.

There was no time for grieving now, the Arabs would soon be upon them, for as long as the Americaverse existed, they would continue to thrive. "Quickly, follow me. We shall ride for my ancestral homeland," instructed Michael "Strongzor" Jordan, climbing aboard his motorcycle and riding off into the sun, the biker brethren and soon Sonic chasing behind his tail.


	5. The Velociraptor Chase

The biker brethren approached the planet of Detroit's Moobase, their engines roaring and their chest hairs flailing majestically in the wind as they descended to the surface of the space colony like true American heroes. It was well in the midst of the night now, unsafe to travel as this was the time the Arab Scouts would set out on their Velociraptors. They hunted for blood, sport, and honor amongst their sinful, subhuman people.

The patriots set up camp, starting a fire made of the spare tires from their Harley Davidson motorcycles. The frothy aroma of the fire brought Sonic back to his childhood, a simpler time, and these precious moments he spent with the Biker Brethren was the first time had felt truly at home for decades. The Americaverse was changing, but could he change with it? These were the questions that could keep any patriot awake at night.

Like any prideful American men would, the bikers removed their helmets and shirts. They sat around the fire in their blue jeans, passing a joint around of which they smoked to ease their nerves so they could prepare for hyper slumber.

"Sonic, I believe it is time I should introduce you to the other members of our fellowship. We are truly a brodacious, brolicious band of brothers, and we will do our best to keep you safe so you may continue your quest," Michael Jordan said, taking a long, hard, toke of the dank kush in his calloused hands. He blew a righteous smoke ring shaped like an eagle into the sky, a spell as old as the Americaverse itself to scare off surf wolves on summer nights.

Michael first pointed to an obese, orange man-cat smoking a lasagna cigar, surely a hybrid bastard child like Strongzor himself made by the godless love of man and beast. "This is _Garfield the Wise_, the oldest member of our party, wielder of the nunchuks made of chainsaws. Sitting beside him is _Charles Barkley_, my dear son of whom bears the title of Slamzor, though upon my death he shall be promoted to Strongzor of the Slam-meal," Michael introduced them, they greeted Sonic with a sweaty hug and a pint of ale like true Americans.

"The two on your right are Bugs Bunny and Richard Nixon, the latter was a former demigod stripped of his title and exiled after his betrayal in the 5-year war of Watergate," Explained Strongzor, Sonic gave a firm hug to the Bunny but merely shot Nixon a stern glare with the intensity of one thousand suns. "Half-Brother, I thought you would have kept better company than that fuckmad, flag-burning gaylord".

"Now you listen here star child, I've changed since then. I've renounced my ways and have instead come to the teat of Lady Liberty for the suckling of freedom. I know secrets of the enemy you couldn't even imagine, you will learn to respect me in time," Rasped Nixon in a scathing tone, polishing his chainsaw guitar angrily. They were interrupted by the godless, howling caws of velociraptors and their riders in the tall grass not far behind them.

"Stop your bickering, you slags! We ride now! Put out the fire, leave no trace!" Bugs Bunny commanded. The Biker Brethren mounted their motorcycles and rode into the jungle, followed closely behind by Arab scouts.

The Raptors were right on their tail, Garfield swung his chainsaw nunchucks and decapitated the fuck out of atleast four or five of them. The bikers took a detour through the jungle, cutting at the mountains enveloping them with their guitars and unhinging mighty boulders which crushed many a raptor and his rider. One of the raptors ran atop a fallen boulder and hurled itself onto Bugs Bunny, and after a brief struggle clamping it's teeth down onto his neck and ripping his head clean off.

This was the last straw for young Barkley, who out of raw American fury turned around and rode straight for the Arabs. The other bikers pulled their heads out of their pants and joined him, making quick work of these prehistoric fucklings and avenging their fallen brother in arms.


	6. Abraham Lincoln Returns

The Biker Brethren gathered around the edge of a stream as the sun began to rise over the water. Garfield and Strongzor carried Bug Bunny's limp body and placed him in the shallow water, closing his lifeless eyes for him even though he no longer had a head. Barkley, being the youngest of the fellowship, was the most emotional over his death. He was being comforted by his father, Michael Jordan.

They gave him the proper things he would take with him before departing into the Great White House in the Sky, the place all Americans go after their passing. A burning flag, a copy of the Holy Bible opened on John 3:16, and a bottle of moonshine. Nixon grabbed his torch and dropped it on his body, exploding the fuck out of Bugs and tossing his entrails to and fro. As was tradition for any American funeral, a flock of eagles descended upon them and devoured his remains, pecking at the ground and splashing in his blood like school-children. _American_ school-children.

Meanwhile, in another time and place, Abraham Lincoln awoke in a cell deep underground. This was it, the hipster fucklings' underground hoard. Built from their hatred and malice, this foundry of evil was where they corrupted many an innocent man through torture. Stripping him of his rights and liberties, making him into one of them, but merely a hollow shell of the patriotic roots which he once held dear.

Abraham's feline eyes wedged between the bars, giving him a fine view of all his surroundings. The remains of many a Harley Davidson bike were strewn across the ashen ground, such disregard for freedom made Abe the Honest sick. So he vomited righteous chunks of blood all over the floor. These bars were nothing to a patriot, with a mighty pelvic thrust he busted through his confines, snapping his shackles.

Upon the sound of his escape, the hoard chased after him, mounting their segways and skidding across the ground. The foundry was built of many ramshackle wooden bridges, thousands of them interconnecting like a mighty faggot over a lava stream. Abraham summoned his guitar from a void where no grace dwells, playing a song to call for aid. His mighty eagle steed descended from the sky in a ball of fire, and the planet shook with his impact to the ground.

The majestic bird hungered for blood, grabbing atleast one hundred hipster fucklings in his jaws, crushing even more beneath his talons. Abe joined his fellow patriot in combat, mutilating many a fuckling with his flesh-choked chainsaw hand. Abraham mounted his steed and they flew upwards, crashing through many of the awful machines and towers of wickedness enveloping the corners of this godless land.

Abe waved a burning Confederate American flag and shot left and right with his dual machine guns. The eagle roared and sent many hipsters flying from the raw, untapped power of freedom alone. Abe pulled back on his reins, making the eagle shoot flames from its mouth, setting the foundry ablaze like the most American of barbeques. The hipsters in the factory below were burned alive, in a place where they forged insidious devices like segways and low-hanging jeans from salvaged parts of Harley Davidson motorcycles.

"Where do _YOU_ think you're going, Lincoln?" A booming voice shouted in a throaty grumble, Abraham turned around and his nose crinkled from the repulsive creature he laid his eyes upon. A corpulent beast ridden with disease and filth approached him, its body was massive but its legs mere stubs entombed in a wheelbarrow. It wore nothing but a tattered rag and a crown of bones, and his eyes mere slits before the gaping feline eyes of Lincoln. "I am the_ Big Kim Jong Un_, sole leader of the fuckling unkindness! For many a year you enslaved my father, and I thirst for revenge!" Big Kim Jong Un roared, Lincoln merely smiled and laughed a hearty, American laugh.

"Riddle me this Big Jong, what rhymes with _freedom?_" Asked Lincoln, stroking the fine hairs on his chin. "...What?" Asked Jong, not a terribly bright beast. "_Eagle rape_," responded Lincoln with a smile, and without warning thousands of eagles descended upon Jong, tearing at his flesh until he was nothing but bones and a memory. The eagles then hunted the living hipsters, feasting upon their flesh as Abraham nodded in approval. Lincoln then flew into the sky, heading for Detroit's moobase.


	7. The Strength of Michael Jordan Fails

The Biker Brethren carved a path through the jungle, slashing and rocking their way through the Detroitian Woodlands. The fellowship battled their way through Surf Wolves, Kung-Fu Wizards, and leaping, chainsaw juggling Bear-Frogs. "So, how about after our journey is over, we cruise down to the beach and maybe fry up some fried wieners? How does that sound, brother Strongzor?" Sonic asked with a twinkle in his eyes, combing his mullet and taking a bite of Surf Wolf carrion.

"We have more pressing matters at hand, we must seek council with the Harlem Globetrotters, for they will help us on our quest of freedom. Wielders of the nine shimmering Basketballs, of which they forged the moonbase of Detroit with utmost surety. They are the guardians of the holy ritual of Basketball, believed by Death Metal Philosophers to be invented by Abraham Lincoln after slicing off the head of Bin Laden the Terrible with one fell swoop and tossing it into a pit. As is custom, they play the game the same way, throwing the opposing side's severed heads into a hollow ditch of the dung of a thousand fucklings. Their heads are then delivered to their widows, who we shame by making them gather wood. It is a sport of honor my half-brother, of which I am a professional at, and I hope that young Slamzor will one day be too," Jordan explained, transmogrifying his hand into a small hound that would goeth forth and seek the safe path.

The hound traveled upon a heavily worn path, the Brethren followed the beast and ended up on the edge of a cliff, and in the distance stood the city of Globetrotter Council, the Detroitian peoples' last stronghold against the forces of Arabs.

As they drove their motorcycles down the cliff-face, Strongzor told many a great tale of the Globetrotters' customs and ancestral history. Garfield the Wise swung his chainsaw nunchucks near his direction, in no mood for such hogwash when they had a mission to complete. "_If this nigga keeps talking shit I'm going to deck him the fuck out..._" Garfield thought in his mind, spitting into his palm and rubbing it on his face, nature's shower as they called it.

They drove into the grand halls of the Globetrotter Council building, still riding in their Harley Davidsons' and refusing to use the parking space, like any hairy Patriots would. Nixon kicked down the door and the Brethren rode in to a grand gathering of the Detroitian people, driving circles around the room and interrupting the fuck out of their meeting.

Strongzor dismounted his righteous metallic steed, bowing before the grand leader of the Globetrotters: Snoop of Lions, son of the late Snoop Doggy Dogg, lord of all that dribbles under the rising sun. It was no time before Jordan noticed something had gone awry. Snoop did not appear as his puissant self, moving jerkily like a puppet pulled on strings hidden to all, his face sepulchral and freedomless like an automaton's pathetic attempt at imitating human life.

"Take arms! This is not the man that taught me everything I know, saving me from the unrelenting icy grip of the hood life, enriching my tiny boy mind with the virtues of Basketball! Wrought this niggard a new crevice, this day we fight!" Michael Jordan roared like a mighty grizzly, grabbing his chainsaw guitar and running for the Globetrotters.

Nixon grabbed the Brethren's weapons, Chainsaw Nunchucks for Garfield the Wise, the fair Guitar Freedom for Sonic Lincoln, and everything else for everyone else. The false Globetrotters contorted and squirmed from their Americanesque might, revealing their true shapes. They were 7-foot tall Arabs swaddled in swarthy, murky shadow. The sole result of dwelling in the nethermost freedomless lands of the Americaverse for so long.

Michael Jordan embraced his inner roots and became full-bear, grabbing an Arab and slamming him upon his outstretched leg, shattering his spine like a lissom fuckling. Though, in mere seconds, the Arab stood up without a scratch on it's hairless, childlike body. "_W-What sort of Negromancy is this?_" Garfield guffawed, joining Sonic's side as they decked the fuck out of several Arabs, only for them to bear no wounds like the spirits of old.

The head Arab, surely possessed by the spirit of the ancient dybbuk John Wilkes Booth, stabbed Strongzor with its noisome, barbed-wire covered Axe Guitar. He then fell to his knees and howled a great howl like only the mightiest of the American warlords. "_HALF-BROTHER!_" Sonic bellowed as the Arab removed its flesh-coated instrument. The American hedgehog tore his belt and dropped his pants, allowing the demon lurking within his mechanical genitals to be freed, cannibalizing the Arab and tearing him limb from limb.

Just when all hope seemed lost, Abraham Lincoln dropped through the roof in a ball of holy astral fuckfire, drawing his Guitar which was made from the burning light of the American spirit itself. "_Fly, yee' tosspots! As long as I draw breath, thenceforward you shall be banished and never return!_" Abraham boomed, the Arabs fleeing at the mere sight of this sweaty patriot, only to be devoured by his mighty Eagle steed. "F-Father! You're alive!" Sonic gasped in awe, falling to his pantsless knees in joy.

"There is no time for sadness, star child. Strongzor is in a dire need, stabbed by the poison tip of the Arab-Magister's blade. This grievous wound is beyond my power to heal, we will have to take him to Canada's moonbase. Or as I prefer to call it, America Junior. There dwells the fair goddess Anne Frank and the true Globetrotters, lest shall Strongzor be writhen for one thousand years in agony," Stated Abe, looking deep into the sallow, unconscious eyes of his true son, who was leaking might pools of blood. And like any patriot, he bled red, white, and blue.

"Master Lincoln, what is that in the distance?" Asked young Charles Barkley, pointing out of the doors of the golden hall and into the city, where hoards of creatures marched in a line and advanced towards them. Lincoln readied his chainsaw hand at the sight of the swarthy warriors in the distance, "Just as I had feared, Arabs never come alone. Those are Communists, foul creatures bred by the dark wizard Karl Marx. Their muscles rippling and their shoulders broad, they are a super soldier created for one purpose: destroying freedom itself," Abraham explained in a whisper, grabbing Michael Jordan and placing him atop Freedom-Song for safety. "_Prepare for Battle!_"


	8. Sonic Rocks the Fuck Out

Sonic drove through the halls of the Globetrotter Council building on his Harley Davidson motorcycle, scavenging for any Americanesque weapon that could help in their battle against the common enemy of all free men. The patriotic hedgehog came upon a garage door, within dwell a mighty 18-wheeler truck, slick like a greased pig upon an open flame.

The metallic behemoth was that Sonic had heard only in legend, mighty as ten thousand Harley Davidson motorcycles and several times as large. The American Flag emblazoned upon its side was enough to make any patriot Americagasm, and Sonic knew this must have been a divine gift from Lady Liberty herself.

Sonic opened the side-door, finding the golden key already in the vehicle in which he could wake this righteous machine that had slumbered for so long. With a flick of his wrist and a twist of the key the truck came alive, emitting fumes into the sky which many an eagle circled around, inhaling these fumes in which was their patriotic sustenance.

The hedgehog was amazed by the mighty speed and strength displayed by the old girl as he laid his foot upon the pedals, and if he had not sworn an oath to protect Freedom which prohibited him from being wed, he would surely have married this truck in which he shared his feelings. Sonic and his betrothed would be wed on Kentucky's Moonbase, next to the Virgin Grizzly Bear sanctuary of which he spent much of his childhood. Before long the sweet purrs of small trucklings would be heard as Sonic bore hundreds of children, all of which would be his heirs, protectors of Freedom.

Sonic drove through the walls of the Council, such destructive power made his blood boil with pride and lust as he halted to call upon his brethren. Abraham Lincoln sat across from him and the other Bikers gathered in the back with the unconscious Strongzor. Sonic Lincoln smiled and let out a hearty laugh as he stared down the Communist forces of ten-thousand strong, snarling and spitting at the sights of the mighty vehicle in which he drove.

He slammed his foot upon the pedals and broke through the council doors, mowing through the Communists like foreign grass growing upon American soil. Abraham Lincoln jumped out of the window with his skateboard in hand, doing an ollie and slaying the fuck out of the Communist forces with his dual machine guns, side by side with his adoptive son.

Sonic was overcome with such a sense of pride that a tear rolled down his eye, he pulled out his guitar and began to sing a song of his feelings as he killed the fuck out of Karl Marx's communist spawn of the underworld. He steered with his feet as he poured his feelings into song form on his guitar Freedom.

"Ohhh Baby the feeling is out of Control

But you know my love is like a black-hole

For you can see it in my eyes

There's only one for me that's just right

And you know we're going to get it on tonight

_Freedom is my lady!_

She shines red, blue, and white

_Freedom is my lady!_

Thinkin' about her is making my jeans tight

_Freedom is my lady!_

She's my sweet patriotic baby

_Freedom is my lady!_

When it comes to lovin' it's yes or no, never maybe_  
_

_Freedom is my lady!_

She's sweet like Mountain Dew in ice

_Freedom is my lady!_

She's gonna take me to paradise!"

As Sonic finished his song the Communist spawn were all but destroyed, Abraham Lincoln slaying the fuck out of the fleeing survivors on his skateboard. Michael Jordan's condition had advanced, the illness that thrived within his body spreading abroad, his once bear-like skin becoming lissom and sallow and his basketball skills being eaten away by the Arab poison.

"We must make haste before the land is benighted, for America Junior's bivouac moonbase. If this ancient truck forged by the strength of our ancestors can break the sound barrier like our motorcycles, we should be able to amass enough cosmic fuckflare energy to make it off of this accursed planet of Detroit's moonbase," Abraham Lincoln said with haste, opening the side-door and climbing into the 18-wheeler truck in which Sonic drove.

The hedgehog slammed his foot upon the pedal and rode forth, the machine's tires setting ablaze from the raw speed alone as the vehicle lifted into the air. Sonic Lincoln eased his calloused foot off of the pedals as the truck broke through the atmosphere and launched into space, Abraham Lincoln taking the wheel as directing them to Canada's secret moonbase.

In no time at all they arrived at their destination, hidden cleverly behind an asteroid so no Communist force could impregnate their impregnable fortress. The truck touched down on the surface of America Junior, its surface unblazoned and made of the finest argent and jewels.

The Biker Brethren stepped out of their bulwark-on-wheels, greeted by the fair lady Anne Frank and the true Globetrotters, all dribbling the shimmering basketballs in which they protected and had not dropped for one thousand moon years. They were Snoop Lion, Magic "Tragic" Johnson, Ice Cube, Shaquille O'Neal, Kobe Bryant, Lebron James, Doctor Dre, Mike Myers, and Will Smith.

Abraham Lincoln turned to the Biker Brethren, "Where Strongzor and I go is a place you cannot follow. I have pressing matters to discuss with the council, you shall wait here until my clamant return," Abe stated honestly, lifting his son and taking him into his arms, following the other demigods as they entered the Canada-Burg, mightiest of the Americaverse's strongholds under the rising sun.


	9. Abraham and the Guitar of the Damned

Abraham Lincoln entered the Canada-Burg with the fair lady Anne Frank and the nine Globetrotters, carrying Jordan's cumbrous body in his arms. Abraham laid his dying son in a deep hollow, dolven from the marble floors beneath them and imbued with the blood of their doughty enemies, in which a new coat would be added each day by the Canadian people.

Snoop Lion pulled a small box out of his beard-like mane. Within dwelled a grill hewn from the finest jewels and death metals, forged within the fires of the tallest volcano in the Americaverse, by the strength of patriot craftsmen whos strengths were unequaled far and wide. He placed the grill upon his teeth, its blinding shine piercing the heavens, only broken by Snoop's sandpaper-like tongue rolling past its rondured surface.

"Brothers, let us now join hands and begin the drawing ritual. We shall purge the darkness from every soul, and within every soul a song of unsavory demonic cries shall go forth as we quaff ten-thousand demon souls like a mighty pint of ale to save the young half demi-god, Michael Jordan Lincoln," Snoop Lion said in a throaty grumble, joining hands with the other council members in their last attempt to save the life of young Strongzor. Unlike Lincoln, he was but a mortal man, his bloodline imbued and tied with the life of a Grizzly Bear. If he passed on now, no supracosmic force in the Americaverse could save his damned soul.

The demigods summoned their guitars, beginning to sing the coveted words of the Holy Book as they prepared for the exorcism of the Arab poison. Their words began soft and in murmurs, though in time their voices grew as they floated skyward, orbiting Strongzor in midair as they rocked the fuck out of him. Jordan convulsed and writhed as the poison was drawn from him like blood is drawn from a wound, and the demigods' ancestral song growing louder and more intense by the second. The poison took an earthly shape as it was wrought the fuck out of him, forming a bipedal body. The very embodiment of the Communist ideals and demonic rituals it was born of.

The accursed Arab Poison beast donned raiments of swarthy shadows, lunging for Abraham's loins with its Axe Guitar and trying to break the ritual. Abraham laughed a puissant American laugh, withdrawing his chainsaw hand and mounting his skateboard. Abraham rode the fuck out of his skateboard, slicing the beast until it's panoply of armor was but mere scraps with his chainsaw hand.

The beast made of poison bowed before Lincoln, begging for mercy like the most pathetic of fucklings. Abraham crinkled his nose in disgust, bursting into a thunderous laugh at the loathsome sight. The sweaty patriot sliced off its head, and along with it Michael Jordan was cured of his grievous ailment. "You know Lincoln, I admire a man with such a firm hand ripe for the slicing of fuckling loins," Anne Frank said with yearning, looking deep into the abyss of the patriot's cold, unwavering eyes.

"Indeed, but even you must realize that the only woman I could ever love is America, and to me the protection of my country is worth more than one thousand years of funky Grizzly Bear intercourse," Abraham explained with a ferocious, Americanesque swagger, reaching down to wake his unconscious son.

Shaquille O'Neal and the lesser Globetrotters reached down to lift the Arab's guitar, an accursed instrument laced with the blood vessels of fallen angels and dipped in the boiling, multi-colored life-blood from Patriots of old.

"I would recognize this blade anywhere, this is the guitar of the mightiest Communist warlord in the Americaverse, _John Wilkes Booth_. Slayer of ten thousand patriots, drinker of the forbidden blood of Eagles. He was the wraith who destroyed Abraham's physical body long ago, until Sonic Lincoln resurrected the fuck out of him on Liberty 9. Only one question remains, how did such a loathsome creature come upon this cursed weapon?" Snoop Lion asked, taking the guitar into his calloused hands for a closer look.

"We must ride for the Death Metal Tomb of Godless Warlords, a foul place deep within Communist territory, final resting place of the six Unholy Lieutenants of old. There is only one place where such a blade could have been found, and if the tomb has been raided I fear that something terrible may happen, threatening the very freedoms of this American land in which we hold dear," Anne Frank said with haste, calling upon Freedom-Song and his kinsmen with the sounds of a righteous death metal beat.

The eagles swept down and grabbed the demigods in their jaws, flying them into the forbidden Communist territory. Eagles were the most American way to travel, Abraham sat his frothy glass of beer on an Eagle cupholder and watched an in-flight movie. Though, he couldn't hear it very well over the thundering sound of freedom.

Meanwhile, the Biker Brethren watched over Strongzor's unconscious body, although they weren't watching him, but rather playing a game of poker. Garfield took a hit of his lasagna Hookah Pipe while waiting for their safe return, the heroes unknowing of the journey the demigods had set out on.


	10. Wilkes Booth and Abe Lincoln

The eagles descended upon the Death Metal Tomb of Godless Warlords, burgeoning forth and allowing the demigods to get off. They flew back to safer land, as the oxygen of Communist territory was poison to such mighty eagles. Abraham Lincoln swaggered forth, kicking down the door of the tomb, in which the Communist people poured their blind hatred as they fortified its walls.

"Damn, it feels _good_ to be gangster," Abraham Lincoln roared with pride, rubbing his calloused hands upon the burnished walls of the tomb. The conclave of patriots walked through the halls of this god-forsaken coffer, searching for the tombs of the dotards in which they had authority to treat with.

Anne Frank gestured for Shaquille O'Neal to follow her, who in turn was the proud father of the feline lord Garfield. They came upon a guileful coffin, and upon closer investigation there was nothing inside, not even as much as communist droppings or a herd of flittermice.

The fetters that would have been used to hold the accursed corpses were shattered, and judging by the three-fingered scratch marks upon the walls there was only one forlorn explanation: whatever was here had escaped. Lincoln donned his habergeon of armor, and on his shoulder he wore the pelt of a Virgin Grizzly Bear in which he used to strike fear into the pathetic hearts of the weak.

He turned to the youngest member of their party, Will Smith, a distant relative of his, "Go forth and aware the Biker Brethren of our presence, I fear that it may have been a mistake to come here," Abraham instructed, even though he didn't make mistakes. Will Smith rode forth and conjured a mighty Harley Davidson like that of the American dream, teeming with such Americanesque beauty Abraham himself was impressed by its righteous fervor.

Over the boiling rivers of blood and above the desolate, haunted mountains of this cursed land stood six wraith-like figures, staring down upon the tomb from far away like a bald eagle stalking its prey. That being the children of Communist spawn that wandered too far into their territory. The leader of the six stepped forth, his muscles broad and his bare chest shredded and scarred from years of battle, burn marks breaking between the forest of hair upon his emblazoned abs.

His hair and beard unkempt and ferocious like a gasoline fire, his muscles pulsating like a lava stream, and his left eye missing from his head. Gouged out by the mightiest eagle warlords with a scar across his rugged face as the permanent reminder of his defeat by the hands of America.

One of his arms had been sliced off in battle long ago, now replaced by a chainsaw-guitar forged of obisidians and golds, impaled into the stub of his arm on a rusty spike. The wretch rode upon the back of a vulture, a despicable creature that feasted upon the flesh of an eagle's young, truly the embodiment of the dark wizard Karl Marx's twisted dream for Communism itself.

The other five wraiths rode upon vultures of their own, although but mere gorcrow compared to the terrible, ferocious beast the leader mounted and tamed himself. The leader of the six raised his arm of metal into the air, surely a beast of power unequaled as to have such strength to hold his instrument of tremendous weight.

"Hunt down the American dotards! Feast upon their flash, bite at their heels, quaff from their dwimmer-crafty blood! Swagger upon their remains, and leave no survivors! Do not fail me, be thankful you have not found yourself in my grip, you lissom fucklings," The leader roared, and upon his orders the vultures and their riders ran down the cliff-face.

They crashed through the walls of the tomb, catching the Harlem Globetrotters by surprise. One vulture goring Ice Cube through the skull, and the rider of another shooting the fuck out of Kobe Bryant with its dual Chainsaw Machine-Guns.

Abraham Lincoln and Anne Frank ran from the thraldom of the accursed temple first, followed by the seven Globetrotters not slain in battle. The tumult of vulture talons treading upon the ashen ground could be heard as the leader stared down Lincoln at the front gate, the other riders circling around the demigods, snarling and spitting in poorly repressed anger.

"_Abe the Honest_, it has been a long time," The Leader guffawed, relishing the coarse sounds of his chainsaw slicing against the stone walls of the tomb. "_John Wilkes Booth_, I see you have broken free from the icy hands of death, in a land where all scream for a mercy they will never receive. But even you must realize, like my ancestor Benjamin Franklin when he faced the demon thunderstorm armed with only his machine-gun kite and American spirit, that you are doomed," Abe the Honest roared with pride, not willing to make the same mistake and get slain by this swarthy fucklord twice.

"You are mistaken, Lincoln. I have not overcome death, I have _BECOME_ death. I have struck a deal with the Necromancer Karl Marx in the parapet of his dark lair of godless Communist sorcery. I am now John Wilkes Booth the Deathless, and I have transcended far beyond the need for such American things like death, and now not even you could slay me, dotard of a thousand suns!" Wilkes Booth mocked with a Communist fervor, unzipping his fanny-pack which contained the souls he would reap with his guitar.

Abraham Lincoln foamed at the mouth from anger, punching John Wilkes Booth off of his vulture, "How dare you enslave such a divine, American creature? You tosspot from the depths of fuckling space!" He growled with a great fury, cradling the dead vulture in his arms and sharing its pain, for Abraham was the protector of all American life, and he wouldn't let this hooting and hollering fucklord destroy the Americaverse he held dear.

Elsewhere, Sonic and the Biker Brethren rested inside a Canadian Bar. Like any Americans would do, Sonic and company got into a fight with bloodthirsty bar hooligans, Charles Barkley and his recovering father fist-pumping and cheering them on. Nixon grabbed a stool and smashed it over a hooligan's head, and Sonic lifted a hooligan and hurled him at a jukebox, and upon his impact the machine began playing the most American of death metal. Sonic laughed a hearty laugh, taking a puff of Garfield's lasagna cigar with great pride.

The bar brawl was interrupted as a Harley Davidson motorcycle crashed through the ceiling, crushing the remaining hooligans. Will Smith dismounted his motorcycle and collapsed onto the floor, mortally injured from a battle with Arabs on his way to America Junior.

"_P-Patriots,_ Abraham needs your help. His mortal enemy, John Wilkes Booth, has been resurrected by Karl Marx. You are perhaps the only people Americanesque enough to defeat him, you must hurry before it's too late!" Smith rasped before falling to the ground, dead from an Arab's poison blade. Sonic kneeled over his body and allowed a single tear to fall upon his forehead, stepping on Smith's body as he boarded the 18-wheeler truck with his brothers in arms, flying for the Death Metal Tomb.


	11. Ultimate Battle for the Americaverse

John Wilkes Booth reached into his fanny-pack, for inside dwelled such Americanesque raiments, surely harvested from the corpses of fallen patriots long ago. A biker jacket of leather emblazoned with flames cloaked his sable skin, and chainsaw boots were donned upon his calloused hooves for feet. Abraham spat blood upon the ground, for being swaddled in the clothes of a patriot was an act of war against the Americaverse.

Abraham knew there was only one way to end these sodomous shenanigans, but at a great cost. He used necromancy to summon a mighty guitar from a world of righteous patriotism and liberty, forged by George Washington in a majestic land untouched by the sins of mortal men. A guitar of such divine and holy passion, that in the hands of the enemy this holy blade could extinguish the Americaverse itself. An American flag was emblazoned upon the face of this holy instrument as it descended into Abraham's nimble fingers ripe for loving.

Abraham shot the demons a righteous smirk, removing this divine guitar from its sheath. Hewn from the copper and wrought iron used to forge the mighty Statue of Liberty, polished with the menstrual blood of Communists it had slain.

The firstbegotten instrument's shine pierced the heavens, the Communist demons contorting and howling in pain from the mere sight of it, snarling and spitting like untamed beasts from the wild lands. The guitar set ablaze as its patriotism grew, Abraham swinging this flaming weapon to and fro, driving the Communist fucklings into the abyss.

John Wilkes Booth lost his composure, setting forth a throaty roar as the guitar grazed his ashen skin, and he saith, " I would recognize the foul beauty of this weapon anywhere, that is the guitar _Communist-Slayer!_ Slicer of a thousand aroused Arab loins, bane of the Eastern Galaxies, bleeder of fuckling flesh! Only wielded by the most patriotic of American warlords!" Wilkes Booth snarled, taking upon his own Communist weapon and lunging for the armed patriot. Lincoln merely smiled and laughed a hearty Americanesque laugh, charging with the demigods into battle.

Shaquille O'Neal and Anne Frank roared with pride as they beheaded a vulture steed with their chainsaw guitars, Magic Johnson lunging for the fallen rider and grinding him into a pulp of Communist shame and sin with his guitar, the rider being the godless warlord Larry of the Cable Guys.

The guitar Communist-Slayer clashed with the weapon of John Wilkes Booth, though this fuckling warlord's sinful blade proved no match for such patriotic might, shattering on impact and sending Wilkes Booth flying. "_W-What are you?_" The great dolemite Wilkes Booth howled in fear, falling to his knees and begging for mercy.

"Abraham "Liberty" Lincoln is my name, and _I am the Communist's Bane!_" The demigod roared with an American fervor, his blade colliding with John Wilkes Booth's head, rupturing on impact and filling the sky with a blinding light, the traces of his ruined body flying miles away as Abraham withdrew his blood-swathed guitar.

Sonic's ears caught wind of Abraham's speech as the 18-Wheeler truck in which he called home arrived at the Battle of the Death Metal Tomb, a single tear of pride falling from his eye. When Sonic perished, he would want Abraham's glorious speech emblazoned upon his tombstone with no context, leaving future historians forever puzzled from the innate power of his words. Sonic kicked the door off of its hinges, running for his father for a firm, sweaty handshake.

Abraham looked deep into the waters of his son's eyes without flinching, he had grown so much as a true American hero, and maybe one day he would be blessed by Lady Liberty and transform into an American demigod himself. The Biker Brethren charged into battle, Strongzor leading the pack as they slayed the rest of the deathless warlords with ease.

Though the Lord of the Damned and his minions had been slain, the battle was far from over. Communists soldiers enforced by Arabs riding their godless dinosaur mounts rode forward, their presence ominous like a storm cloud forming over the horizon as they charged forth.

"Take arms, war is upon us! We are patriots united, you shall stand your ground, no matter what trials we may face!" Snoop Lion roared, the American heroes reforming the line and staring down their insurmountable challenge ahead, an army of millions strong. The surviving Globetrotters dribbled their Shimmering Basketballs, Michael Jordan and his son joining their ranks, taking up the basketballs of the three slain Globetrotters with pride.

Booming, echoing sounds filled the sky as the Arab Lieutenant mounted upon a ferocious and swaggering dinosaur, blowing the horn of war as the Communist forces advanced. The Biker Brethren charged forth, slicing away at the front-line infantry, knocking hoards of them into the abyss of bottomless chasms that filled the ashen ground of this godless land.

Arabs piled onto Garfield the Wise and clawed at his flesh, but he swiftly broke free with a righteous swing of his Chainsaw-Nunchucks. Anne Frank used her American magic to dislodge a boulder. The Biker Brethren got behind this rock of American might and pushed it forward, crushing thousands of Communist fucklings underneath before being thrown into a pit like a mighty basketball.

Garfield huffed a bottle of Lasagna jenkem to clear his mind, joining the forces of Michael Jordan and the Globetrotters as they decked the fuck out of Arab forces with their slamming, dunking, innate basketball skills. Young Charley Barkley took his basketball in hand, visualizing a golden hoop in his mind as he stared down a mighty Arab dinosaur steed. He thrusted upwards for the slam dunk, crushing the dinosaur's skull with his basketball, killing the beast in one fell swoop and crushing thousands of Arabs upon descent.

Jordan smiled in pride, his son had truly come to deserve the title of Strongzor of the Slam-meal, having such righteous basketball skills rivaling his own. Jordan and Barkley mounted their motorcycles, driving up the back of another dinosaur garbed in Cosmic Space Armor, both grabbing a basketball in hand and slaying the fuck out of this overgrown fuckling reptile as father and son with a sweeping slam-dunk.


	12. Disbanding of the Biker Brethren

Sonic tore off his shirt from righteous anger, his finely toned muscles so rock-hard that a patriot craftsman could carve the heads of presidents into his chest and the forest of hair that roamed free upon it. "Stand by me my brothers, for we shall drive these foul sand-monkeys into the abyss of which they came! _God bless the Americaverse!_" Sonic roared with an Americanesque fervor, howling a great howl into this red sky of Communist territory. The fine hairs upon his chest and abs flew majestically in the wind, hairs so fine they could be braided into mighty shapes and images of beauty unequaled anywhere else in the American galaxies.

"But master Sonic, these are not normal Arabs! They are flag-burning Communists, spawned from the impious witchcraft of Karl Marx!" Charles Barkley warned, only to be responded by a righteous laugh from Sonic that covered his face in a thick layer of American saliva. "To a patriot young Slamzor, anyone that isn't an American is an Arab. _Let us rocketh the fuck out!_" Sonic roared with pride, the other Bikers tearing off their own shirts and riding into battle on their Harley Davidson motorcycles.

Michael Jordan embraced his roots and became full grizzly bear; watching such a majestic beast covered in firm, swart hair was a wondrous sight to behold. He rode underneath the underbelly of an Arab Dinosaur, the only part of this beast's body not swaddled in Cosmic Space Armor. This comely warrior did not falter, throwing his chainsaw-guitar "Slam-Dunker" many furlongs into the air.

It sliced a fatal gash upon this beast's hide, flooding the land with a freshet of glittering dinosaur blood. It showered Jordan with its glory as he reverted back into his American form. The patriots fought long and hard for many a fortnight, for as long as patriotic juices coursed through their American veins, they would never give in to their puissant enemy.

Abraham Lincoln performed a pious, Americanesque pelvic thrust into the sky. The mere power of Abraham's loins alone conjured a righteous tidal wave, Arab and Communist spawn alike tossed into the air and descending into a mouldering pile of corpses and demon forces slain in the war.

Even the Arab Dinosaurs feared this sweaty patriot's innate, godlike power that coursed through his loin blood; howling in fear and fleeing into the sunset like pitiable fuckmeisters. Though this army had all but been slain, there was still a lone champion amongst their sinful people ready and able to fight.

He was _Joseph Stalin _the Loathsome, devourer of light, hammer of the Americaverse. Supreme commander of the demon spawn conjured by the dark sorcerer Karl Marx. He answered to no man and purged his body of all emotions, save one: hatred of all American life. He strode forth, swinging his mace-guitar connected by a rusty chain, Communist blood coursing through his innards. A small earthquake shook this forsaken land as he trod upon the ashen ground, each heavy footstep striking fear into the hearts of even the mightiest warlords.

Soviet Russian Battle Cubes, teeming with thousands of Communist spawn festering within, circled the planet in the event of his death; preparing to hunt the patriotic heroes all throughout the Americaverse if necessary. Abraham Lincoln turned to his patriot brothers in arms, his feline-eyes gloriously reflecting the light of the sunset behind them as night befell the land. Instead of one of his grand speeches, he merely nodded his head solemnly.

Sonic smiled, shaking the sweaty hand of his adoptive father and clashing their guitars together. No words needed to be said, they would ruin the moment. An army encircled them, so large that even the mightiest alliance of Americans in the galaxy may not be able to defeat it.

The patriots roared the mightiest of American roars, charging into a hopeless battle with full knowledge that they may not be able to win. Explosions and soaring debris showered the land as the Soviet Battle Cubes opened fire, the sky growing as red and as bright as the American spirit. Abraham Lincoln unsheathed the Communist-Slayer, clashing blades with Joseph Stalin with Michael Jordan fighting at his side. Stalin swung his crooked and misshapen mace with little effort, the tip of the blade coming down with such force that a crater filled its place.

The Battle Cubes beamed down reinforcements, hoards of swarthy warriors flooding the barren hills of this desolate field in which they fought. Stalin swung twice with a bloodthirsty grin upon his trembling lips, slamming the 16th president with such deadly force that he was flung across the battlefield, rolling upon the ground like an American can of beer discarded by a hairy patriot.

The demonic marchwarden then set his sights on young Charles Barkley, decimating all in his path and hurling the defending Globetrotters left and right. Slamzor was frozen in his tracks, fear filled his heart and bullets of sweat trickled from his forehead. Enough to load a shotgun with.

"You shall not lay even a single one of your misshapen fingers upon my dear son,_ you fuckmad, booty-bothered, thrawn-faced, toothsome tosspot of Communist shame!_" Michael Jordan roared like a mighty grizzly, losing what little composure he had left and hurling himself upon Joseph Stalin. Hatred and pure, unadulterated anger overcame his patriotic soul, viciously bludgeoning the Communist warlord with his blade and leaving him no opening for attack.

Stalin effortlessly slapped Strongzor to the ashen ground and stood erect before him, towering over Michael as blood poured from the open gashes that littered his body. Michael kneeled upon one knee and clashed blades with this detestable foe, only to have his chainsaw-guitar shatter and disperse across the field as it collided with Stalin's blade. The communist warrior laughed heartily as Jordan shakily rose to his feet, unwilling to give up the fight even without his ancestral weapon to save his son.

A blood-curdling roar, as loud and as mighty as a thunder clap echoed through the night. The Biker Brethren could only tremble and goggle in horror as Stalin's mace collided with Strongzor's shirtless body, impaling him without mercy. Michael Jordan quivered and shook as he tried to stand his ground, collapsing upon the withered grass with blood pooling from every open wound and orifice scattered across his ruined body.

Charles Barkley kneeled before his fatally wounded father, meeting the gaze of his cold, unwavering eyes. Slamzor clasped his father's hand as tightly as he could, tears trickling from his eyes as he spoke, "_Father!_ Please hold, on! We can get you help, we can save you!" Barkley whimpered in desperation, running his nimble fingers throughout Jordan's wispy locks of hair. Stalin stood graven and silent, gazing upon the pitiable sight with the utmost pride in his sinful deeds.

"...There is no need for saving me son, you already have. This is like those stories, the tales and fables I would read to you about patriots of old in your childhood. No matter what the insurmountable task they faced, they never backed down. And sometimes, you didn't want to know the ending, because you could never believe that the world could go back to the way it was when so much destruction had happened. But yet, _it did," _Jordan rasped, curving his lips into a hearty smile as the Biker Brethren kneeled before their fallen ally._  
_

"...For as long as there is even one American man roaming this sinful world, there is still hope for the Americaverse. And even though great tragedies may befall us along the way, there will come a new day. A day of peace, for all patriots. That day may not be today, but it shall come. You are now Strongzor of the Slam-meal my son, wear this title proudly, _like I once did..._" Michael Jordan spoke with a smile, drawing his last breath and meeting the stalwart gazes of his son and brother one last time. His eyes grew dim and lifeless, and he passed on to the great White House in the sky.


	13. The Final Jam of Michael Jordan

Abraham Lincoln shakily rose to his feet, approaching Stalin from behind and viciously beheading this demonic warlord with one fell swoop. He crushed Stalin's defiled skull under his gold-trimmed boot, restoring honor and gaining vengeance for his fallen son.

"May yee' rest in the most foul of abyss, deep within the hells of iron of the underworld like the swart, Communist fuckthain you are," Abraham snarled in disgust, spitting upon the ruined body of their formidable foe from the fords of crunkenstein. The communist soldiers soon retreated upon the sight of their mutilated general and crawled back into the Soviet Battle Cubes. They had gotten what they had came for: _the life of an honest patriot._

Abraham gazed into the unwavering eyes of his grandson, mourning over the death of his father alongside his fellow compatriots. Sonic's nose crinkled in disgust, and he vowed to himself that he would reap his revenge upon the entire subhuman Communist race of which he despised. Garfield and Nixon lowered their heads in sorrow, the steward of basketball Snoop Lion joining them in tribute to his deceased former apprentice.

The globetrotters all unzipped their pants and placed their guitars over Jordan's slain body, grieving alongside the Bikers. Charles Barkley wiped the tears from his face and stared upon the rising sun, unsheathing his guitar and beginning to pour his feelings into a righteous, American song.

"Strongzor was his name

Born of Grizzly Bear and Man

Dinosaurs and Arabs he would shame

His skills taught by the Globetrotter Clan

_America shall rise again!_

To heal his heart, and drown his woe

His American spirit, so bright it could glow

Swarthy fucklords, Michael would slay

His loyalty to the Americaverse could never sway

_America shall rise again!_

Beautiful is the sound of the pouring rain

As he slayed the fuck out of Arabs from hill to plain

His Basketball skills would never fail

As he walked down a lonely, patriot's trail

_America shall rise again!_

Strongzor was once his name

A sacrifice he made so we may fight another day

His American spirit bright as an open flame

Evil ones will never know, you cannot keep the power of _America_ at bay

_America shall rise again!"_

The Harlem Globetrotters prepared their Harley Davidson motorcycles as the sun rose, smoke filled the air from the carnage and destruction scattered all across this godless land.

Snoop Lion turned to the Biker Brethren and smiled, "We are now departing for the great White House in the sky, the final frontier. The Americaverse no longer requires our powers, we shall join the ranks of the patriots from old in the next life. Would you care to join us, Abe the Honest?" Snoop asked, the light of the sun glittering upon his mahogany skin. Abraham Lincoln shook his head, "This is the Americaverse's most dire hour, and I am one of the few patriotic demigods still left to defend it. I will join your ranks one day, but that day is not today. It's what my son would have wanted."

The Biker Brethren looked upwards and smiled as the Globetrotter drove into the sky, departing for the next life like the righteous patriots they were. Abraham rested his hand upon Sonic's shoulder, staring into the waters of his blue eyes, "You are now the leader of the Biker Brethren, Sonic of the Lincoln family. Where shall we take our voyage across the American stars next?" He asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"We shall head for the heart of the Communist galaxy, to destroy the dark wizard Karl Marx and his Communist legion once and for all. It shall be the final tribute to our fallen brother, his sacrifice shall not go in vain," Sonic spoke aloud, clashing guitars with the remaining members of the Biker Brethren and bellowing a righteous, throaty roar into the stars to honor Strongzor's memory.


	14. Patriots Stuck in a Web

The Biker Brethren fled from the planet of godless Communist sorcery, forced to leave their mighty 18-wheeler truck behind, as it was too large to be camouflaged and hidden from the all-watching eyes of Karl Marx and his army. It was no short of a heartfelt departure, Sonic wept over this truck in which he would have chosen to be his betrothed. Sonic thought back to the precious moments he and this vehicle had shared before their parting. Lying by the shores of New Jersey's moonbase and savoring eachother's sweaty flesh, hunting Arabs and mounting their sinful heads upon a pike, and rocking out by an open flame in the heart of the great Alabama woodlands. A single tear rolled down Sonic's eye, though like any hairy patriot would, he rode onwards.

Richard Nixon regaled his fellow patriots with the stories of his ancestry and people, the Yorba Lindas from California's moonbase that wasn't actually on the moon. They were a proud warrior race, purging their bodies of all emotion and growing past such Americanesque virtues like mercy and courage. Their relations with Americans had always been strained, some believing they were no better than the Hipster Fucklings of the southern galaxies. Sonic himself distrusted Nixon and the others of his kind, but he stayed his tongue, knowing that Nixon couldn't help being the hooting and hollering fucklord he was. It was in his blood, just like how the tears of eagles run through the blood of patriots.

Abraham crinkled his nose in annoyance, he himself sharing Sonic's distrust for the ex-demigod. Abraham interrupted the proud Yorba Lindan and began telling stories of his own, regaling the heroes with his adventures that were too beautiful to detail into the tongue of mere mortals. "...And so then, I told the two virgin grizzly bears to make sweet, American love to eachother for my viewing pleasure," Abraham Lincoln finished his punchline with pride, the patriots bursting out in laughter and throaty roars of righteous, American howls. Abraham was a well-groomed man that enjoyed a good sexual innuendo while feasting upon the carrion of Arab Dinosaurs.

The patriots landed upon a long-forgotten asteroid, possibly the ruins of some forsaken Communist territory. Upon the mass of rock were the ruins of a Soviet Russian Battle Cube, and the skeletons of Communists slain in battle long ago. The Bikers started a fire and took shelter in the Battle Cube, rummaging through anything they could find of use, even if it was forged by the enemy of all free men. Garfield the Wise got to work, preparing a hearty meal worthy of such brave patriots: raw wolverine meat with a side of freedom. The orange man-cat was the chef and scribe of the Biker Brethren, detailing their Americanesque voyage through the stars in his dream journal.

Abraham took a bite of the wolverine meat right off the bone, his feline eyes glowing in the midst of the night. After a pint of ale to heal their woe and a few drinking songs, the Biker Brethren plunged deep into an Americanesque slumber. Sonic Lincoln perched himself upon the ruins of the Battle Cube, keeping watch with his gaze fixated on the stars. Curiosity overtook him, and he came down from his jury-rigged watchtower to search through the ruins of this forgotten Communist base. He lifted a fuckling skull into his calloused hands, his patriotic eyes widening as he noticed two large bite marks that shattered the skull. "...These Communists were not slain in battle, _they were eaten by-_" Sonic hollered with an American fervor, only to be interrupted by the echoing screams of the Biker Brethren back at the campsite.

Sonic ran as fast as his American legs could carry him, only to find the campsite empty and the fire doused. His heart stopped as he heard loud stomps in the distance, surely by a massive behemoth of a creature, shaking the forest by it's roots, each stomp making Sonic's voluminous chest hair flail wildly in the wind. Sonic leaped into the trees, swinging on the vines and clinching his guitar between his fang-like teeth. He rolled upon the forest floor and into a bush, wedging his feline eyes between the twigs as he beheld the behemoths which had reaped his patriotic brothers.

Five repulsive, overgrown Spider-Bears, their arms shaven and masculine, bearing tribal tattoos emblazoned across their sinful bodies. Their skin swathed in scars and their faces swaddled by the comfort of a doo-rag, they wore righteous biker jackets custom-fitted over all eight of their crooked and misshapen limbs. Their teeth as sharp as the blades of a chainsaw, six eyes wreathed in flame upon their faces. Sonic's comrades were swaddled in webs, their weapons strewn across the ground and their bodies dangling from a tree. "_YO!_ These are some good eats right here, _yee' stinkin' fucklords!_ And here you thought I couldn't pull another fookin' rabbit outta' ma' hat. Ye' should stick ye' heads up ya' arse, cause you ain't seein' shit clearly!" The head Spider-Bear snarled throatily at his companions, the dribble-lipped bears preparing to eat the Biker Brethren alive!


	15. The Sad Tale of B-Bear Soul

Sonic crinkled his nose in disgust, letting the repugnant scents and aromas of this godless asteroid flood his nostrils. The Spider-Bears circled around the tree, biting at the heels of the patriots and snarling, drooling and foaming righteous pools of saliva from their mandibles, slobbering upon the bark of the tree. Sonic knew he must take arms and fight, but could he stand up to the challenge of these untamed beasts of the wild Southron galaxies? "Of course I can," Sonic murmured under his breath with a patriotic smile. "_I'm a goddamn American._"

Sonic roared with a patriotic fervor, leaping out of the bushes and rolling into the center of the Spider-Bears' hoard, guitar unsheathed and eyes ablaze with fury. "Gird up thy loins_, yee' ass-bothered fucklords and fuckladies! _You shall release my brothers at once, lest you prefer an American smack-down of shit-shaking proportions!" The American hedgehog threatened, placing his guitar into their camp-fire, withdrawing his weapon now set ablaze. He swung this flaming guitar of righteous might to and fro, the lesser bears backing away in fright.

"Aiyyo, what is this'n we have 'ere? Some sorta fookin' homo-thug who ain't 'nuffin? Oi, even if we squashed the beef, I ain't touchin' ya hand! Poppity-pop, let's watch this stankin' dribble-lip drop!" The head Spider-Bear, whom wore the name of B-Bear Soul, snarled in a guttural growl, his talons treading upon the ground as he moved forwards. Sonic's feline eyes widened as he directed his gaze beyond the hybrid bear, realizing his patriotic companions had stolen back their freedom and were now preparing their deadly weapons for an all-out attack. Now all the American hedgehog had to do was distract these foul beasts for a moment longer while they gathered their Americanesque raiments.

"But wait, yee' ferocious, swaggering bears from the fords and spreading plains of Collard Greens! I know why you art here. You cannot hide your feelings from a tempered patriot, I can sense deep longing inside of you with all of my calloused senses, strengthened from years of bloodshed and war. The Communists brought you here, did they not? They betrayed you, I can sense it. So you took their lives, didn't you?" Sonic asked with a quivering lip, his gaze unwavering as he stared into the cold, lifeless void that was the heart of a Spider-Bear. B-Bear Soul hung his head in shame, and for a moment Sonic could have sworn this bear showed the empathy and sadness only capable by an American man.

The bear's sadness soon transmuted into misguided fury, "Empty out, reloaded and throw mo' slugs! Once I split ya' ass in two, you'll be twice as butt! I know how to chase a cat up in ye' tree! I only know how to be tha' one way: _that's tha' Spider-Bear!_" B-Bear Soul roared ferociously, lunging for Sonic's protruding loins with fangs bared. "_TALA-HOO!_ God bless America!" Abraham the Honest roared in the traditional American tongue, taking up the Communist-Slayer and beheading the beast before his fangs could tear a gash in the patriotic loins of the American hedgehog.

The rest of the patriots took up arms, charging into battle against the four living bears. Nixon leapt atop a fallen boulder, high enough to meet eye-contact with the bears. He hacked away at the skull of a Spider-Bear with his Axe guitar, slicing gashes upon its face until the mighty beast collapsed into the still blazing fire. Garfield the Wise slayed the fuck out of two bears with his righteous American nunchucks, joining Charles Barkley hand in hand and bludgeoning the last beast with synchronized blows until its last drop of life blood dripped upon the ashen ground.


	16. Conspiracy to Destroy Honest Abe

The brotherhood of patriots gathered their pilfered belongings, exploring the caves and territories built by the slain demonic bears, a sprawling network of tunnels and caves built into the side of a mountain. It was no secret that the Biker Brethren were not the first to see their lair, as the decomposed remains of patriots and communists alike were strewn across the ground without care. Abraham came upon a hoard of the bears' treasure, reaching his hand into the towering pile and removing a guitar covered in layers of dust and cobwebs. He removed the weapon from it's sheath, his heart stopping as his feline eyes gazed upon the inscription emblazoned upon its surface. The president dropped the ancient instrument to the ground and fell to his knees from shock, unhinging his jaw like a snake and roaring into the night.

Nixon took the instrument into his own calloused hands for inspection, "This was the guitar wielded by Benjamin Franklin the Noble, son of John Hancock the Boisterous, last of the Founding Fathers. He disappeared one decade ago, departing on a quest with seven other patriotic stewards like himself to reclaim the lost American kingdom of Mexico. He was a good soldier, we fought side by side during many wars. May Lady Liberty bless his patriotic soul," The noble warrior spoke, struggling to hold back tears over his fallen comrade.

Abraham girded up his loins and wiped the tears from his eyes, placing the guitar back in its sheath and bestowing it upon his young grandson, Charles Barkley. "You could not wish for a better blade, my dear Slamzor. It is known as the Electric-Defiler, a guitar foretold to possess the power of slaying even immortal beings. May it serve you well," Lincoln spoke with a smile, Barkley examining the finely-crafted weapon for himself. Before long, Sonic and his brethren mounted their motorcycles and drove back into the stars, abandoning this godless asteroid once and for all. Abraham Lincoln rode at the front of the fellowship, guiding the bikers to the orbiting satellite of Patriotism VII.

Once the flagship of the Americaverse's Space-Navy, it was stripped down after retirement and made a tactical base where Patriots from all across the galaxy could come to rest and repair their Harley Davidson motorcycles. Benjamin Franklin himself frequented the pub built into this installation, a famous brothel known far and wide as "The Sleeping Patriot Tavern". Abraham Lincoln himself took upon the burden of delivering the bad news to the stewards of Patriotism VII, the last place Benjamin Franklin was seen before he departed upon the daring journey that took his life ten years ago.

The force-field enveloping the satellite dissolved as the Biker Brethren approached, screeching to a halt inside of the docking bay and dismounting their righteous, metallic steeds. Abraham Lincoln turned to his American brothers, lips quivering as he spoke, "I will take my leave, to discuss urgent manners with the stewards of Patriotism VII, manners only a battle-hardened American like myself could understand. You shall depart once you are fully rested, and I shall reunite with you once my mission is complete," The president foretold with a smile, the bikers understanding, for they knew a patriot's work was never done.

Upon the departure of Lincoln and the arrival of the Eagle technicians, whom swore an oath to repair their Harley Davidson motorcycles with utmost surety, the Biker Brethren left to visit the Sleeping Patriot Tavern as a group. They entered an elevator shaft, traveling downwards and surveying the satellite in it's entirety through the frosted windows around them.

"I cannot explain it, but I feel something has gone awry with this station. A dark sense of foreboding, devoid of any Americanesque feelings," Charles Barkley shared with his brothers, full of concern over his grandfather. Sonic rested his hand on Barkley's shoulder, "Do not fret, young Slamzor. I can assure you that everything is in order, there is no need for such homoerotic emotions," The American hedgehog reassured him, though Sonic himself was beginning to share his concern as well.

The shaft came to an abrupt halt, malfunctioning and dropping the company off upon the wrong level of the station. The door slid off of its hinges, revealing a corridor shrouded in darkness, puffs of steam rising from the floors as the patriots stepped out. Without any warning, the elevator exploded, sparks and shrapnel showering the room like rain, the patriots thrown limply across the room like ragdolls discarded by an ungrateful Communist infant. "Many a man has tried to assassinate me before for my beauty, so I believe I would be the first person to recognize an assassination attempt when I see one," Garfield the Wise hollered, putting into words what all of the other bikers were already thinking.


	17. The Communist Armies Prepare for War

The Biker Brethren traversed down the winding paths and halls of these forsaken catacombs, Garfield the Wise limping from his wounds sustained during the failed assassination attempt, being supported by the help of Richard Nixon. A sense of repressed fear coursed through Sonic's loins, he dared not even think of the trials his American father must be going through during this dark time. An unearthly glow painted the halls, the marble emblazoned upon their surfaces reflecting an ungodly light, a shine that illuminated nothing and pierced into the hearts of even these might patriots. Silent as a grave, dark magic permeating these walls that could drive weak-willed men mad.

With a mighty pelvic thrust, Sonic pierced through the metal walls that enveloped them with his throbbing groin. A bridge of stone suspended upon a bottomless abyss was all that greeted the patriots, across the bridge and great vale were two towering gargoyles carved of obsidian and wrought irons. The statues were of ancient Communist warlords, names so impure that speaking them alone was an act of treason against the Americaverse. The only thing comparable to the blasphemy of uttering their names was godless, interracial intercourse by the lakeside with thirteen grizzly bears and an Arab she-beast, all while lying upon a burning American flag.

Between the two Communist gargoyles was a gate towering into the corpse-light above. Between the cracks of the doors was a pale green light, a shine that silently begged them to peer at the horrors and Communist depravity within. "We should turn back from whence we came, this is a dark place. We did not fight the Nazis to enter such a vale of Communist horror, a godless land aflame with foul fuckeries and negromancy! Gird up thy collective loins and collect thy patriotic toiletries, Americans such as ourselves were never meant to gaze into the flaming eyes of such unadulterated Communist fuckery!" Richard Nixon howled with arms outstretched, sweat trickling from his forehead, the gust of wind seeping through the doors making his mullet flail wildly in the wind.

Sonic scoffed at Nixon's warning, spitting upon the ground with swaggering hips. "Is it not the American dream to explore our patriotic galaxy? Expand the Americaverse, destroy foul sodomites and Nazi sorcerers, slay dinosaurs and have a passionate romance with no fewer than three American damsels at once?" The American hedgehog roared with hatred, marching down the bridge and wedging his nimble fingers between the cracks in the door. As his hands laid upon the wooden frame, the corpse-lights surrounding this forsaken corridor grew in intensity, and with them the very earth beneath their patriotic feet began rumbling and shaking. Sonic gritted his teeth as he braved the ferocious storm, trying his hardest to gain even the slightest gaze into the unknown.

The deathly shine below them shot into the sky, ablaze like a roaring flame, the unearthly glow so bright that the satellite could be seen from galaxies away. The gate had opened, the corpse-light fading into nothingness, a darkness surrounding the patriots so bleak and ungodly, many shades darker than even the blackest of Communist nights. The candles surrounding the room, of which were placed in the shape of a pentagram, set ablaze once more without warning. Beyond the gate was a sight so ghastly, a place of foul wickedness that patriots like these were never meant to lay their eyes upon.

Immeasurably high towers wreathed in spikes, battlement upon battlement towering into the sky, immeasurably strong and fading into the hazy sky above. The shadow-mantled fortress was built into the side of a mountain, of which was its dark throne. A winding path of wooden bridges and ramshackle spires built into the hills, a godless green shine showering the land with an unearthly glow. Once a satellite of American pride, but no longer was this place. Perverted and twisted into a dark lair of evil, disguised as an American haven to lure patriots into the ultimate Communist trap. A den of Communists so massive, it was utterly surreal to gaze upon this place where no grace dwelled.

Soldiers of Communist sin and horror marched from the gates of this accursed lair of dark sorcery, millions of them pouring from the topmost tower from which they were spawned. Arab slaves worked in the factory from the depths of this black land, forging deadly blades and siege-cannons, being whipped relentlessly by the Communist pitmasters that ruled over them. Immense masonry blocks formed the foundation of this horned tower, the architecture becoming more and more intricate as it grew higher. It was an iron palace of foul beauty, ruled by a dark sorcerer known only by one name far and wide: _Karl Marx.  
_

Though, this dark lord has yet to release his most deadly servant. Mightiest of the Communist legion, he who knows not of such American things like death. The biter, he who destroyed the last alliance of American heroes during the battle of the Gettysburg Address. He who rides upon the back of a she-dragon, last of kin to Pube-Slayer the Great. He who shall lead the Communist army to war against the Americaverse. The board is set, the pieces are moving. He is _Fidel Castro_. And the Biker Brethren had fallen right into his trap.


	18. Flashback: Birth of the Americaverse

It began with the holy matrimony of George Washington and Lady Liberty. Both very puissant energy beings, roaming the omniverse for eons, longing for a purpose in a place that existed outside of time. It was a patriotic love at first sight, and the two deities made sweet, American love to eachother without hesitation, going nonstop for forty days and forty nights.

While savoring their sweaty flesh, George Washington cried out into the stars, singing a divine song of lust and beauty that was too magnificent to detail into the sinful tongue of mere mortals. In George's song, he spoke of a wondrous place full of patriotism and awe, born from his swevens and dreams. A land where men ride eagles and slay contumelious dinosaurs and she-beasts to and fro, and where even the smallest pair of patriotic loins could save the world from wickedness and depravity.

As a gift to his many wives, George Washington made this perfect world of which he spoke, his calloused hands rising the mountains from the earth and his protruding loins filling the planets with water. And with this divine creation, thus the Americaverse was born. George Washington made the welkin ring with his creation, foul beasts that roamed the galaxy such as demon-kin and attercops forbidden from entering this American land of peace and prosperity. Lady Liberty soon gave birth to many children, great deities and gods that would never be pizzled or punished, for their power was divine and patriotic. The Americaverse was where they would abide for all their days, protecting it alongside their kin and preserving the American way.

As his first gift, George Washington gave all nine of his children their own guitars, so they could make beautiful hymns and music of their own. Led in song by George, the conclave of patriotic deities began playing the song of their family in perfect harmony, shredding the fuck out of their instruments. Though, one of them refused to play this song. He was John Adams, eldest and wisest of the nine, second wielder of the Communist Slayer. The dwimmer-crafty American played a different song on his guitar, and all were amazed by the sheer beauty of this musical wonder.

And thus with this dank hymn, death metal was invented, and all would bow before Adams in time. "Such beautiful melody, my son! Surely the fag-end of all who fathom such American grace! Forsooth, you shall one day be destined for great things of beauty unequaled," Saith George Washington, joining the others and praising his eldest son.

As his second gift, George Washington created the Americans. Fleshy and mortal beings, lesser than the deities but still patriotically righteous in their own right. His children were destined to watch after them in the Americaverse, observing and encouraging their development. Each Americanesque deity was assigned to a different planet, chosen according to their birthrights and abilities.

Thomas Jefferson left for the planet of Virginia, a people spiritually bound with freedom. Andrew Jackson settled on Tennessee's moonbase, where dwelled a people that above all desired power. James Garfield touched down on the moonbase of Detroit, a culture that enjoyed hunting and sports of honor. George W. Bush and Bill Clinton, both of which were powerful users of American sorcery, departed for the uncharted eastern galaxies and were never heard from again.

Teddy Roosevelt and William Howard Taft landed on the urban planet of New York. And finally Herbert Hoover, smallest and youngest of the nine, departed for the moonbase of Canada but disappeared before he reached the planet, believed to have been devoured by the spirit of Sasquatch.

However, John Adams was not given a planet to rule, which greatly angered him. George Washington believed he was not ready to rule his own world, for he saw a sickness growing within him, an illness of the mind that shrouded his heart in shadow. The deities soon grew lustful over their own creations, having passionate romance with the Americans, giving birth to demigods that were both half man and half deity. Fueled by his jealousy and relentless, ass-bothered negromancy, John Adams attempted to create his own sentient beings like the Americans.

The experiment failed horribly, giving birth to godless wretches whose loins were not girded and their hearts not filled with freedom. In years to come, these beasts would be known as Communists. They were the first beings of evil to enter the Americaverse, but more would follow in time. John Adams had yet to realize the full measure of his mistake, and his own creations marched throughout the Americaverse, kin-slaying every American they could.

Sin had been brought to the Americaverse, and George Washington's vision for American peace was dashed. The remaining deities left the Americaverse, cursing John Adams's name as they fled for their homeland that existed outside of time. The fate of Adams was set, his destiny now irreversible. He took upon a new name, and for that day forward he was known by his loyal Communist minions as _Adolf Hitler._


	19. Eyes of the Communist Dragon

Sonic Lincoln leapt down from the balcony and into the heart of the twisted foundry below, his face bathed in corpse-paint, two nipples protruding erect from his hairy chest like bullets. He stabbed his own guitar into his abs for safe keeping, such a puissant hold that whomever were to remove this weapon from his mile-long glorious muscles would surely be crowned King Arthur. He whipped his flowing mane of hair backwards as he stood, his brotherhood of steel joining him on the surface of this dark and ancient hill of Communist sorcery.

Garfield the Wise licked the elbow of a Communist soldier to try and gain its attention, though this bald warrior of sin ignored the orange man-cat and went about its wicked business. "They will ignore us for as long as they believe we are not a threat. As is the way for such churlish man-chimps like themselves," Richard Nixon scoffed in a guttural, Cookie Monster growl. If Richard Nixon was ever turned into a pig, he would be a mean pig.

Charles Barkley recognized this faggot of bulwarks from his American history lessons on Detroit's moonbase. It was told that this was the sight of Charlie Brown's death at the hands of the dark warlord Adolf Hitler. He was beheaded, the name of Adolf carved into his forehead and delivered back to his homeworld, his eighteen children grieving over the death of their father and king. The eldest son Snoopy took up his father's sword and became the new king of Mount Bald Eagle, and by the doors of Adolf's lair he slew all of his generals at once, hewing off their heads and thenceforth keeping Adolf trapped in his own mountain for over five hundred moon-years.

The Bikers slogged onwards, brushing past thousands of dormant Communist soldiers that went about their business, fortifying the dark bulwark even further like runagate niggards and dotards. The Brethren of Patriots came upon a narrow bridge, at its fag-end was an unsullied pit that fell into the darkness below. An opening carved into the ceiling allowed light to pour into this circular corridor, perhaps large enough for a doughty beast such as a she-dragon to crawl through.

The sounds of a wroth rustling filled the halls, echoing from the bottom of the pit like ten-thousand loins being girded in unison. It was all too clear for the patriots what the purpose of this unblazoned corridor was for. All that could be seen was the glow of its eyes and the glimmering shine of its yellowed fangs as it rose from the pit beneath their calloused feet. Its neck miles long and swaddled in golden scales, swart hair falling limply from its reptillian face like a toothsome tomnoddy from the depths of Arab space. The beast's face met the gaping and all-consuming gaze of Sonic's feline eyes, the dragon's nostrils the size of Sonic Lincoln's entire majestic body.

The massive She-Dragon went by the title of _Pube-Swagger, _ancestral mount of Fidel Castro. Born from the godless love of dinosaur and sasquatch, torn between both worlds but yet embracing them all at once. She who set the planet of New Jersey ablaze for forty days and forty nights, marching through the streets with thousands of machine-guns attached to every inch of her well toned body and muscles. All that crossed her path were decimated, for she wore a necklace hewn from the severed heads of her enemies upon her neck.

If this beast wasn't a hooting and hollering Communist fucklord from the fords of collard greens, Sonic would have loved to ride and command this majestic she-beast. He would tame her alone, wrestle her to the cold floor and prove that he was worthy to be her patriotic master. Sonic would become one with the beast, kissing the she-dragon with tongues ablaze as her rightful master, inhaling every spurt of her fiery saliva that would scorch his face like magma. If this ferocious she-dragon misbehaved, Sonic would slap her with great passion. Do not pity her, she has to learn.


	20. Garfield Decks Him the Fuck Out

Sonic and his brotherhood of steel burgeoned forth with guitars alms-guest, but not before feasting upon a feeble bannock meal of mouldering lasagna retrieved from Garfield's satchel woven from thigh skin. Charles Barkley donned his raiments and baldrics of battle, hurling his cavalcade of throwing-knives at this churlish dragon.

The daggers grazed upon the dragon's cheek, ere upon the sound of ringing bells the beast spat out one hundred teeth like a first-time doobie smoker. The dragon grew besotted like a swart man that was darker in color than humans should be, her ire more fearsome than fire. The dragon ejaculated flames of many colors from its mouth, though the patriots swaggered out of the way before their loins could be singed. Richard Nixon says that allergies are un-american, so he won't stop eating peanuts. What a greedy little cunt.

The dragon giggled the giggle of a man whose loins were not girded and heart not filled with patriotism and the emotions of people whose skin was not yellow. "You are all foolish little American tosspots before my reptilian swagger! All fat little children, those who do not know of my ferocity and grace! I will brand my name into your pelvis, so that all women who covet your physique shall flee in fright from the message carved into your aroused loins! _Pucker thou'st buttock and pray for mercy!_" The great worm hollered with passionate threats, lips trembling with every word that fled from her jaws.

Garfield leapt atop the flaming worm's tail, swinging his chainsaw nunchucks ferociously as he strode up her barbed spine. "Americans are not fat, they are full of _freedom!_" Garfield cooed with passion like a bald eagle in heat, slicing off one of the dragon's many horns. He took up the fag-end of the great worm's cudgel and stabbed this swarthy malefactor relentlessly, blinding her in both eyes before slicing a gash upon her throat. He used her blood as corpse paint as he wrestled this righteous beast to the ground, pounding her with his fists like a bad husband would.

The Bikers leapt atop the dragon and pinned her to the ashen ground with their guitars. Garfield dropped his blue jeans to the floor and engraved the immortal word "_lasagna_" into her skull with his nunchucks, slaying the accursed she-dragon without pity or remorse. "Of all the motherfuckers I've met, you're the motherfuckest," Garfield scoffed with lips covered in red, white and blue lipstick. Charles Barkley and Sonic were so excited for their slumber party that they couldn't sleep.

In another time and place, Abraham Lincoln dismounted from the elevator and entered what appeared to be a dungeon. Rats and flittermice scattered as the holy light naturally emitted by Lincoln filled the room. Abraham gazed upon these hells of iron with his feline-eyes widened, the faces of prisoners surrounding him like beacons from their confines. His lips puckered as he gazed upon a swart man covered in firm, leather skin staring back at him.

Abraham snapped the bars like mere twigs with a pelvic thrust, kneeling before the prisoner festering within. He was Bill Cosby the Magnificent, a childhood friend of Lincoln and a fellow demigod. Father of the righteous twins Dilbert and Dogbert, Cosby was the man who slayed Adolf Hitler's thirty illegitimate wives and aided in the siege of the Haunted Mountains of the Führer. Now only one question remained: who was the cosmic fuckmeister behind this godless act of imprisoning such an American hero?

"_Zippity zop zoobity zooboo zoo,_" Bill Cosby murmured in his native language, having dreams of milk, honey, and eating the fuck out of a Jell-O Pudding Pop invading his mind. Abraham smiled passionately as he heard this native banshee wail. "Zibbity zobbity zipple zop zoop zood," Lincoln replied heartily, being very fluent in Cosby's language.


	21. Do Patriots Dream of Electric Eagles?

Abraham Lincoln watched over the ancient woodwright for many a fortnight, delivering the wizened Cosby his patriotic sustenance with a soup fashioned from three tussocks and no small amount of Sasquatch saliva. "...After I beheaded the foul sodomites Tom and Jerry, I made passionate love with ten gorilla wives of all ethnicities in front of their collective families. If you don't think that's the tightest shit, _then get out of my face_," Abe Lincoln hobnobbed like a toothsome tomnoddy, finishing one of his legendary puns for Bill Cosby.

Abraham had almost fallen asleep upon the seventh day, even though he doesn't sleep because such acts are un-american. Cosby had regained his strength at long last, slapping Lincoln upon his clenched buttocks and awaking him in a cold sweat. Except it wasn't cold, it was actually steaming hot. And it wasn't sweat either, but rather some sort of strange face urine. And it came from his pants. Meanwhile, Barkley and Sonic were obsessing over an elaborate scavenger hunt for seven days.

Bill Cosby tugged upon Abraham's sleeves and gazed deep into the trenches wreathed with flames that were his gaping feline eyes. "Abraham Lincoln, protector of the sacred necklace hewn from the Führer's yellowed teeth! Last descendant of the divine liberty-kin! He who mounted ten-thousand grizzly virgins and lived to tell the tale! You must leave me, a dark force has permeated this land. Far beyond the power of you or I, an astral sword-thain of dank fuckeries unequaled!" Bill Cosby sputtered with fear, his bony fingers fondling Lincoln's beard with lust.

"Just as I had expected, this is undoubtedly a Communist trap. Come to me, Freedom-Song! _TALA-HOO!_" The demi-god guffawed with passion in his native tongue, summoning his righteous eagle steed by clicking his heels no more than three times. His patriotic escort materialized before him, for eagles and all patriotic beasts existed on another plane of reality.

Abraham took Cosby into his arms and mounted his steed, pulling upon the reins of his majestic comrade so that they may soar and collect their allies. He wrote the entirety of the United States Constitution upon Cosby's forehead, an ancient rune that would twinkle when hipsters were abound.

Freedom-Song soared through the satellite of Patriotism VII, his girdle tightly woven to keep the patriots riding upon him from falling to their doom. The eagle descended into the flaming depths of the Communist homeland, crashing through the swart bulwarks and battlements wreathed with spikes. Freedom-Song tore apart many a Communist ghyll and leaguer for its own amusement, lifting up Arabs with its talons and tossing them to and fro like bread crumbs for some sort of godless man-bird hybrid.

Fully armored Communist soldiers poured from the sky like rain, latching onto Freedom-Song's feathers with fangs bared and loins girded. "We cannot shake them! What astral fuckromancy is this?" Bill Cosby goggled in his guttural speech, taking up Lincoln's Communist-Slayer to sweep the man-chimps off and back to whence they came. The only thing comparable was having a hotdog-eating contest with Jesus.

Both Abraham and Cosby armed themselves with a habergeon of chainmail, both wielding custom machine-guns bathed in red, white and blue paint. Freedom-Song brought the American heroes to the face of a balcony before halting, allowing them to unload and slay the fuck out of hundreds of Communist and Arab soldiers that ran rampant in this foundry of wickedness.

Knowing the poor quality of Arab architecture, Abraham sliced upon a rope with his guitar, and with it many of the black towers crumbled and fell in which this lone rope supported. Cosby reached for Abraham's spare guitar, throwing it outwards so that it may behead no fewer than five-hundred Arabs before returning back to him like a loyal boomerang. And so as he commanded, so shall it be. Sonic and Barkley were having trouble on their scavenger hunt, and Richard Nixon ended up arguing with a sentient latrine for safe passage.


	22. Sonic and Fidel Castro: Face to Face

Abraham Lincoln and Bill Cosby ran through this accursed stronghold of wicked sorcery with hoards of Communist soldiers pursuing from behind, the skeletons of patriots that dared to enter this haunted mountain of sin strung upon the walls with chains dangling from their bony dangalangs. "Bill Cosby, I have a riddle for you. Why can't Communists dance?" Abraham asked with pride, riding atop his righteous skateboard with gyrating hips.

"Why?" Retorted Cosby with passion, ramming into a Communist head-first and impaling him with his iron skull. "_Because they're fucking dead!_" Abraham laughed heartily while stroking the forest of hair upon his chin, hurling a burning American flag at the Communist hoard. The flames spread, and with them an Americanesque explosion erupted like a mighty squib which mutilated the hoard and sent their flaming loins falling from the sky like rain.

The two guileful gaffers tread upon an iron hummock in the nethermost levels of the dark tower and kicked down the gate atop it, and by mischance they came upon the four members of the Biker Brethren dwelling within. The brotherhood was feasting upon a light nuncheon, having just slew the Communist pitmasters with an American fervor. "Abraham Lincoln! You hath returned!" Sonic hobnobbed passionately, falling to his knees with profound and American feelings of pride for his adoptive father.

Richard Nixon burgeoned forth, grinning from ear to ear like a sable thrall who hath just extinguished his American master, clapping slowly with each step. "Bill Cosby, you have done the Communist empire a great kindness with your wicked servitude. As I have promised, your honor that was stolen from your family during the battle of Watergate is restored. Now, deliver me the dotard's guitar so that we may present it to our leechcrafty master as a burnt offering," Nixon reviled in a guttural snarl, and as he commanded Cosby handed him Lincoln's ancestral guitar without further question.

A hoard of swarthy Communist marchwardens revealed themselves from the nightshade, subduing the patriots before they could act with shackles forged of black magic for the hands and feet. "_Nixon!_ What is this treachery of which you utter from your foul and noisome lips? And to think, I almost trusted you. You shall release us now or I'll smack your shit!" Sonic ordered with passionate threats, the only thing equivalent to his anger would be passing ten-thousand kidney stones made of fire.

Richard Nixon strode forth and smacked Sonic upon his puckered cheeks, "Your words are poison, you dotard hailing from a shameful family of American niggards! You shall all be sacrificed for the glory of Karl Marx, he who every Communist worships with profound lust. Your necks shall be wrung, and no man shall ever find your corpses!" Nixon scoffed with his betrayal, standing by Bill Cosby's side. "You may not be a crook, but you are one nasty-ass nigga," Garfield jeered at Nixon, smoking a lasagna joint.

The Communist soldiers marched upwards and to the topmost point of the tower with the American heroes taken as their captives, Nixon leading them forth with a wicked swagger and a jaunty tune. Cosby remained near the rearguard of the line, his head hung in shame as if he had begun to regret his shameful decision. Charles Barkley was but a gentle and caring soul, and so he wept many righteous tears, forsooth the Richard Nixon he knew and loved was now dead and his corpse defiled.

The brotherhood of steel came upon a large hall at the zenith of the black tower, instruments of alchemy and godless sorcery lining the walls, a mural of Adolf Hitler emblazoned upon the ceiling. An oppressive parapet of shadow with a vice-like grip that wrapped around them like a serpent of Communist horror.

Upon his ashen throne of dust and bone was a corpulent and wizened dotard, his face pallid with heavily lidded eyes that shone red in the blackness. A crooked and pale beard hanging limply from his calloused serpentine facial features, the guitars of those his armies slew beneath his feet. His many wicked consorts standing beside his throne, the symbol of an Ouroboros carved upon the obsidian floor.

"_Ooh!_ What is it? Crunchy and wet little Americans? I like those, they squirm and wriggle when I bites their scrotum! Sticky, wet, _they bleed juicy red!_ Oh, yes they do! Yes! Let me eats them and makes love to their corpses master, _please?_" A wrinkled and sallow creature swaddled in a black cloak begged, a deranged little wretch known as Adam Sandler who was born from a marriage Karl Marx would like to forget.

"Silence your forked tongue hidden beneath your yellowed teeth, you worm. You have no power here!" A towering and imposing figure boomed at Sandler, slapping him upon his puckered buttocks. He was garbed in the Godless Sasquatch War Armor that was once worn by Herbert Hoover before he was tortured and his body desecrated by hipsters. Surely, this must be Fidel Castro, although he wasn't the swarthy fucklord that the legends had described. Sonic would even argue that he looked somewhat Americanesque, however he would not let Castro's deceivingly rugged charm and finely toned abs poison his mind.


	23. Freedom-Song and the Eagle Kinsmen

The loathsome haggard Karl Marx coughed and wheezed upon his obsidian throne, blood dribbling from his puckered lips as he wrapped his chode-like fingers around the Communist-Slayer. Marx was grossly incontinent, sputtering the grand prize of his colon atop his throne that doubled as a urinal of silver and gold. He took a puff out of his Hookah Pipe, blowing smoke in Fidel Castro's face before clearing his throat with thunderous rumbles and grunts that almost mimicked the joyous sounds of American intercourse.

"You hath done the Communist Brotherhood a great service with your betrayal, Richard _"Communism"_ Nixon. With George Washington's ancestral and divine guitar in our grasp, we shall shred the fuck out of the Americaverse in the holy name of our Führer slain in battle long ago. Extinguish these American niggards and dribble-lips at your leisure," Marx grumbled throatily as his consorts stood by his corpulent side, cleaning himself with a filthy copy of the United States Constitution that was prior soaked in a trough of murky water. Meanwhile, Adam Sandler wanted to marry a sentient latrine but his father disapproved of their controversial romance.

The gate resting in the nethermost corner of the chamber creaked open, and hither stepped a sable and wicked Communist Inquisitor. He was a red, furred creature known as Elmo, his rippling chest and abs covered in self-inflicted scars, a blood-stained doo rag swaddling his balding and wrinkled forehead. Elmo's sole mission was to torture innocent American souls to draw secrets like blood is drawn from a wound. The hooting and hollering dolemite unsheathed his instruments of foul torture and depravity, licking his lips as he strode forth with gyrating hips.

"You're in _Elmo's World_ now, motherfuckers!" The crimson warlord sneered with a sensual passion, striking Abraham Lincoln with three lashes of his barbed whip and no more. His depraved and malevolent Communist audience roared and applauded, the pitiable thrall Adam Sandler foaming from the mouth with twisted pleasure. Nixon merely stood among the enemy and spoke not, meeting Sonic's gaze as he was tortured by the inquisitor.

However, the warlord Elmo had yet to reveal his most deadly and godless weapon. The impious and vile torturer from the depths of Arab space withdrew an electric guitar from within his loincloth, forged from within the white citadel of Mount Bald Eagle and hewn from the same rock that was graven into the holy carved images of Mount Rushmore eons ago. Garfield thought back to a happier time, when he beheaded the sodomite Jon Arbuckle with his katana for smoking all of his dank lasagna kush.

The most dishonorable of deaths for a patriot was being extinguished by a holy American blade, and that's exactly what Elmo planned to do, having tortured innocent American souls all his life so that he may know of their every weakness and flaw for the sheer glory of Karl Marx. Elmo was such an impure and shameful fucklord that he would fornicate atop a burning American flag with ten-thousand shark wives who were committing a detestable act of adultery against their well groomed and upright American husbands.

"Why art thou loins not girded, patriots? No witty jabs or insults of the wicked Communist sodomy? You niggards are no purer than the foul Mr. Noodle, who I slew when I was only but a small fuckling with my bare ass hands. You do not have the right to bear arms, whimper before me and pray to your American gods!" Elmo roared with the utmost pride in his malevolent work.

"You are right yee' foul inquisitor, I do not have the right to bear arms. But I do have the right to _bear legs!_" Abraham Lincoln hobnobbed in a throaty grumble, and without a warning prior he grew the harry and swart legs of a bear that were wreathed with claws, tearing his blue jeans as his bear legs grew in size and strength.

"Fuck you, I'm Abraham Lincoln! _God bless America!" _Honest Abe roared like a mighty grizzly, mauling Elmo with his firm-muscled grizzly bear legs before beheading him with a pelvic thrust. Lincoln snapped his shackles, wasting no time in freeing his fellow brothers in arms. Freedom-Song and his kinsmen descended from above to aid the patriots against the enemy of all free men, lifting up the Americans with their talons and slaying a great deal of Karl Marx's henchmen.

Among the patriots lifted into the nightshade above was Bill Cosby, these righteous eagles knowing not of his fall into Communist servitude. The depraved sorcerer Karl Marx took up Lincoln's Communist-Slayer, throwing it far outwards and into the sky as Fidel Castro and his soldiers took up their machine guns and raiments of war. The divine guitar succeeded in beheading the eagle that carried Sonic mid-flight, the only weapon in this dimension powerful enough to commit such a detestable act. Sonic fell deep into the abyss of space, down to the nethermost corners of the Americaverse.

Not even Abraham Lincoln could save Sonic now as he plunged down the endless void of space, deep within the depths of Communist territory.


	24. The Voice of Karl Marx

"Fidel Castro, most foul and wicked of the impious legions of Germany, did I ever tell you how the Communist people came into this sinful world?" Karl Marx gurgled in a throaty grumble, staring out from the zenith of his dark tower upon the bloodthirsty hoards and legions at his disposal. He fondled the wispy hairs upon his silver beard, Castro standing by the dotard's wizened side and gazing upon the foot of the tower. Adam Sandler and the Communists were practicing a new pastime that consisted of huffing Abraham Lincoln's underpants to get high.

"They were created by_ Adolf Hitler_, he who we owe all of our lives. A black wraith he was, a sorcerer of godless leechcraft. Once an American himself, his lust for power consumed him, coveting strength like a perverted niggard covets the physique of all slags who walk and utter noisome words from their poisoned lips. He would remove his hood, revealing only a jagged crown of silver and a furrowed beard upon his lips with no visible face. He cried out in many ancient tongues forgotten by men, from a face unseen to all but his most wicked servants. Inseparable from reality, for he was fear itself," Karl Marx continued after a period of silence, furrowing his eyebrows and taking a sip from his chalice of dinosaur blood.

Karl Marx lurched forward with great difficulty back to his chamber, collapsing upon his throne and plummeting into another coughing fit. He rested his feet upon Elmo's decapitated head, now pallid and wrinkled as all the blood had escaped hours ago and pooled into the corner of the room. Adam Sandler kept the headless body to play out his own twisted desires, like any Communist would.

Marx gazed into the comely and handsome eyes of Castro, grinning wide with his yellowed fangs bared to all. "Hitler coveted his own Americans to mate with, those who would lay eyes upon his wicked loins and not howl and flee from fright. Crafting their love handles with his calloused fingers, filling their lifeblood with the juices from his wizened dangalang. For many generations we lived in servitude to our holy forger, before he was slain in battle by the hands of a detestable American foe of whom Communists loathe and fear. I was his eldest and wisest apprentice, destined to rule over his empire after his destruction," The haggard bellowed, six tears rolling down his aged cheeks as he recalled the memories of his adoptive father who taught him everything he knew and held dear.

This was the most satanic number of tears, and as each fell from his wrinkled face an American fell over somewhere. Fidel Castro nodded, leaving his elderly master to oversee the Communist battalions in which he commanded. He brandished a glittering knife concealed beneath his cloak, probably the most flamboyant and homosexual knife that ever was. "_One day,_" Fidel Castro grumbled with his teeth gritted, placing the dagger back in its sheath.

Elsewhere, deep within the unexplored depths of the Americaverse, Sonic fluttered his eyes and furrowed his bushy eyebrows as he awoke in a strange and foreign keep hidden between two deeply cloven mountains. The American hedgehog found himself upon a silken bed, of which was much too comfortable for such a rugged patriot. Sonic often preferred a nice boulder to sleep atop.

He also found his finely toned muscles swathed in linens of white and gold, though he quickly tore them off in favor of his classic blue jeans and biker jacket combo. Sonic was a pioneer of patriotic fashions. He was often found wiping sweat and other unspeakable bodily fluids from his forehead with a red, white and blue handkerchief. Today was no exception, even in uncharted territory.

The coarse patriot strode forth, looking down from a balcony positioned at the leftmost niche of the chamber in which he slept. He observed a land of patriotic tranquility populated by upright and god-fearing American men, abundant with freedoms that even such a legendary patriot as himself had yet to experience. Teeming with majestic, curved architecture surely forged by patriot crafstmen carved into the great peaks abound, amassing a large city of ivory and gold that enveloped the mountainside from all angles.

Never before had Sonic seen such a patriotic haven grace his eyes, truly this was the American dream in which he had been told stories of all his life. A single tear of pride fell from his eyes, and as any patriot would he dropped his pants to the ground and howled into the sky for many hours. An act so patriotic that righteous eagles descended from the skies above and landed atop his broad shoulders, joining him in the throaty song of his people.

"I'm glad to see that you hath been healed, my slamming and jamming American brother. It has been a long time since our paths have crossed, a day I have greatly longed for," A much familiar sight spoke in the deep and heavenly voice of a true American hero, his arms spread wide as he creaked open the door leading to Sonic's dwellings. It took only one look for Sonic to realize who had uttered these angelic words. And he cried tears of joy as he gazed upon the swart and rugged face of the man at his doorstep.

It was _Michael Jordan._


	25. Sonic and Michael Jordan Reunited

Sonic and his righteous brother strode forth and delved into a secret corridor trimmed with gold, hidden from behind a waterfall in which was its liquid cloak. Michael Jordan parted the raging waters with his guitar athwart, swishing his pale robes behind him as he guided Sonic within the entranceway to the catacombs of this ancient mountain. They came upon a wide chamber, hewn from the rock of this legendary butte with an assortment of great thrones encircling a large table placed in the middlemost niche of the room.

A triangular crevice was carved into the roof that allowed light to fill the otherwise sable blackness. Sonic was led to sit his ass down upon a throne that seemed tailor-made for such a righteous patriot, great treasures from his homeworld on Kentucky's moonbase emblazoned upon its face. Michael Jordan rested parallel to his half-brother, upon a throne made of many basketballs taped together with consummate skill.

The leftmost gate creaked open behind them, and out stepped a patriotic fellowship swathed in the same robes that Michael Jordan wore upon his mahogany-like skin. Sonic could recognize very few amongst their ranks, among these few was the proud feline warlord Snoop Lion and the fair maiden Anne Frank. They elegantly sat upon the remaining thrones, Snoop Lion smiling at Sonic with his puckered lips that were cracked from decades of doobie smoking.

"As promised by thy ancestors, the _Last Alliance of True American Heroes_ will now come to order. Each of you righteous and upright men and women, each in two representing your homeworlds scattered far across the Americaverse. We hath all passed the tests to prove our patriotic worth. Whether that be slaying impious dinosaurs or having a passionate romance with a virgin grizzly bear, we have all earned our honor," Snoop Lion spoke in his heavenly speech, resting his hand upon Sonic's shoulder while the other members of this alliance nodded in approval.

Sonic's dangalang boiled with confusion, so he leaped atop the table and looked upon the stalwart gazes of the alliance members. "What sort of buttmassive negromancy dost thou utter from thy American lips? Surely, is it not the teachings of our patriotic ancestors to not be so fucking confusing like a babbling sand-monkey from the east? Thou shalt slam with the best, or thou shalt jam with the rest!" The American hedgehog lectured ferociously, for he was a honest soul who always spoke what was on his mind. The other council members were clearly impressed by his ferocity and swagger.

"Do I need to slap your shit? I know a buddy who is an expert on slapping your shit!" Rick Harrison threatened Sonic from across the table, who in turn was one of the representatives attending the council. Snoop Lion shot the wizened haggard a stern glare, pressing his fingertips together as he began to speak again. "Yes, of course. Such curiosity is truly American! We are the Last Alliance, a council brought together by our ancestors to discuss what is to be done to combat the whack-ass Communist Empire. We have taken you to the White House, a haven that exists outside of time itself. Death has no power here," Snoop Lion briefed the committee, meeting the hedgehog's gaze with a firm nod.

Michael Jordan garnered Sonic's attention by punching him upon his face, as such was a formal American greeting that was widely accepted as a holy ritual in which all upright and god-fearing men would enact.

Jordan combed the swart hairs upon his chest, wetting the rims of his puckered lips with his silver tongue before speaking aloud before the council, "The other members of our alliance are Scooby-Doo, Hank Hill, Bugs Bunny, Dilbert, Cory Baxter VII, and the revered Captain Picard. They will be instrumental in the plot to overthrow Karl Marx and extinguish the detestable Communist Empire of wicked sodomy," Jordan spoke aloud in his guttural speech, introducing the alliance to eachother formally for the first time.

Sonic couldn't help but ponder the fate of the Biker Brethren, who were centuries away from this heavenly dwelling from the nethermost corners of existence itself.


	26. Bonding of the Last Alliance

Michael Jordan stood upright before this council of wizened warriors, his muscles so firm that anyone could have sworn he was taking Gorilla Juice to have become so righteous in strength and divinity. Of course, this was not the case, because the only drug Michael Jordan would ever need is the milk of freedom that was suckled from the teats of Lady Liberty.

"This is nary a petty quest ahead of you, my patriotic brethren. Many of you may not even return from the cobblestone road ahead that all patriots walk alone. You may kill hundreds, even thousands of Communist warlords on the path you shall stride upon before you can truly save our American galaxies," Snoop Lion briefed the alliance of the dangers ahead, blowing smoke rings from his lips that were shaped like eagles. "The most I can kill is five," Rick Harrison conceded. Sonic wasn't far from choking this fat curmudgeon for his lack of faith in America.

While the eldest members of the council spoke amongst themselves, Captain Picard regaled Sonic and the alliance of his many patriotic adventures across the Americaverse. "...The Prime Directive wasn't the only thing getting violated that night when I engaged in her Jefferies Tubes. I set her Dilithium crystals on fire, and then extinguished the flames with my flesh-phaser's Armus sludge. Needless to say, Grizzly Bears are kinky in bed," Captain Picard finished his story with a smile and hearty laugh, the other members of the council clearly disgusted yet amazed at the same time.

"Now I'll tell you what, all you need to court a woman is some WD-40 and a zippo in her buckwheat farm. Ya'll boys ain't right with your detestable sodomy," Hank Hill jeered in a friendly manner, Scooby-Doo nodding his canine head in approval. In that moment, Sonic knew that he had quite a patriotic adventure ahead of him if he had to cooperate with these prideful boobies to destroy the forces of Communism once and for all.

Elsewhere, the eagle kinsmen swooped down and released the Biker Brethren atop the ashen peaks of a mountain deep within the nethermost corners of Arab space. Freedom-Song nodded towards Abraham Lincoln as a gesture of his gratitude, departing with his kin back to Canada's moonbase. Abraham Lincoln crinkled his nose in disgust as he gazed upon the wizened face of the traitorous Bill Cosby, slapping him to the ground with nary a moment of hesitation. He took up Charles Barkley's divine guitar, holding it up to the miserly skinflint's neck as he strode forth with swaggering hips.

"I beg of you, spare my pitiable life! I can further explain my detestable act, but you must give me a chance! I will even spare you one of my Pudding Pops as a sign of good fortune!" Bill Cosby begged upon his knees with lips quivering, Abraham relinquishing his grip on the weapon to hear the niggardly man's tale. "Fine, but I'm keeping the Pudding Pop," Lincoln rasped in a guttural snarl, eating the frozen treat whole. He even swallowed the stick, as any god-fearing American man would.

Cosby coughed and wheezed, rubbing upon his nearly gutted neck as he stood upright before the infuriated patriots. "Forgive me for deceiving you, it was not my true intention. Ya' see, the fair maiden Anne Frank instructed me to keep a watchful eye over your patriotic quest. Forsooth, the American demigods had gained knowledge that Nixon was a Communist spy, his heart twisted and defiled by Karl Marx's silver tongue. I purposely fell into Communist servitude to keep my identity a secret, though the mission went awry and I was forced to relinquish the Communist-Slayer to their impious armies. If I had revealed myself sooner, surely Nixon would have slew you all," The wizened dotard confessed, Lincoln placing his guitar back in its sheath after listening to his plea.

Charles Barkley spat upon Cosby's feet, clearly not believing his accusations. "It was your plan that got my uncle killed, or even worse! Because of your inaction, the patriotic hedgehog who we owe our lives may have been captured and slaughtered by the Communist Empire like a mere sable thrall! I could never forgive you or your astral sodomy and negromancy," Barkley rasped with great contempt for the mahogany niggard. "I hate Mondays almost as much as I hate Communists," Garfield murmured under his breath, taking a bite out of a skull he found upon the ashen ground.


	27. The Hunters of the Biker Brethren

The impious sorcerer Karl Marx stood amongst his loyal consorts, of whom each heart was spoiled by his forked silver tongue that could defile even the most faultless of righteous men. The skinflinty wizard gazed out from the zenith of his sable tower, few other griefs among the sinful world sharing the same bitterness for a Communist than a single shred of hope. For in the most forlorn of times, hope would rise like a great black shape amongst the flames engulfing the land. Adam Sandler was threatening to kill himself over bad Mexican food which could give even the most fortified of bowels the runs.

Walking under the archway of which no mortal man could touch, for hope was beyond reasoning. Beyond the power of even the most foul of Communist warlords. It would ravage their way of life, the legacy of Karl Marx and his forefathers crumbled and limp like the loins of a wizened dotard upon the uncloaked bosom of a noisome slag. Unmoving, steadfast, graven as the carved images of Mount Rushmore. The words of hope and its teachings were poison to the ears of Karl Marx and his consorts. The Biker Brethren now embodied the hope that smote Marx's foul and godless heart. And thus their destiny was to be slew by his advancing Communist forces he sent to hunt them.

"And thus, it is settled. The Last Alliance shall depart east, into the leftmost borders of the wild Arab Territory currently under Communist occupation. Hither you shall slay the bumper-lips and Dinosaurs dwelling across the shaws of this godless wasteland. Also, Scooby-Doo, nobody believes that you have a girlfriend that lives in Canada. So shut your whore mouth, you homoerotic fucklord. Our patriotic council is now adjourned," Snoop Lion spoke aloud in his angelic voice with the utmost pride, parting his arms to give each of the patriots a righteous hug with the ferocity of ten-thousand grizzly bears in heat. Bugs Bunny died while trying to recite an intricate song and dance routine for Snoop Lion, so he shall not be participating in the journey.

Snoop Lion and the fair maiden Anne Frank stood atop the dock at the gates of the White House, wishing the patriots safe travel with powerful incantations of pious divinity. The Last Alliance was given everything they would need before departing back into the Americaverse to begin their journey to extinguish Communism at long last. Many copies of the Holy Bible personally signed by Kevin James, a flask of whiskey brewed in America, and of course their righteous metallic steeds in which they would tame and court like women of beauty unequaled. All Harley Davidson motorcycles, flames emblazoned upon their ivory faces featuring leather seats trimmed with gold.

As was tradition, the seven mighty patriots courted their motorcycles with passionate massages and make-out sessions to bond with their heavenly mounts. Michael Jordan was the most sensual with his metallic steed. "Do you have a fair lass back home that ye' would care to court, my brethren? When I return to my homeland, I would like to marry the house," Cory Baxter spoke aloud in his native Scottish accent, mounting his palfrey of steel and unsheathing his flamethrower-guitar, of which was a gift from his ancestors. Dilbert has to feed his cat every thirty minutes or it will die.

"Cory, you must understand. The only woman I could ever love is freedom. Forsooth, I would even sing a hymn of her divine and innate beauty, but the words of the song are too beauteous to utter in the tongue of mere mortals," Michael Jordan reminded his brotherhood of steel, and all were inspired by his devotion to patriotic swagger. The patriots would abide their time in this haven no further a fortnight, striding forth and passing inside a gaping wormhole of red, white and blue spokes summoned by Anne Frank's divine sorcery.

Elsewhere, Abraham Lincoln tied a barbed chain around Bill Cosby's neck to keep a watchful eye atop the overweening haggard. Charles Barkley quaffed deeply from his pint of ale, shooting Bill Cosby many glares of scorn and contempt with ferocious swagger unequaled. The patriots constructed a bivouac lodging hewn from Lincoln's wispy chest hair, Garfield lighting a fire by tossing his lasagna joint upon the coarse sands of this Arab wasteland. They had wandered through these deserts for days upon end, with nary a sight of any civilization.

"Send word to Karl Marx, _the American scum hath been found,"_ Vladimir Lenin gurgled in a guttural growl, staring down from a mountain peak overshadowing the Biker Brethren below. He and his subhuman Communist battalions departed into the east, his detestable scribe sending the regards of the most feared Communist Lieutenant in the Americaverse. He who was ordered to extinguish the Biker Brethren for the glory of Karl Marx, to slay each and all and offer their corpses as burnt sacrifices.


	28. Vladimir Lenin Could Use a Hand

"The road ahead must be trod, nary an easy task awaits us. Rely upon thine own self, for strength nor wisdom shall carry you further. No hopes, no dreams. Only patriotism can save your whack-ass now," Michael Jordan spoke aloud, tying an American flag around his neck in which would be his flowing cloak. The Last Alliance drifted through the void atop their motorcycles, for ahead was a godless land of horrors that could be described in no language. Bathed in a garnet shine visible to all that illuminated nothing, stars intertwined with the shimmering eyes of beasts unimaginable that thrived in these places dark and empty. An hour into his wedding, Rick Harrison still doesn't realize that his bride is a sentient slice of pizza named Steve.

Elsewhere, the Biker Brethren fed upon a feeble nuncheon of steaming Lasagna Grits with a side of freedom as the sun rose. Charles Barkley kept watch over his Americanesque brothers, curving his lips into a smile as Lincoln regaled his comrades with many tales and legends of fiery patriotic swagger unrivaled. As ordered by Garfield, Bill Cosby buried his head in the sand so that all may trod upon his face with nary a concern. As is an acceptable punishment in any culture.

Over the horizon and ashen hogbacks of this godless land formed a feeble hoard of Arabs, astride their godless Velociraptor mounts. As with all Arabs, they were swathed in accursed linens of white that cloaked their swart and disfigured skin. They played their screeching snake-tamer music, a banshee wail of a tune reminiscent of Helen Keller trying to play smooth jazz. Such contempt and disregard for patriotism disgusted Abraham Lincoln, so he spat blood and undigested bits of lasagna upon the sand.

However, these subhuman swertings would never come alone. Leading the hoard with a battalion of Communist warlords was the impious lieutenant known as Vladimir Lenin, surely unleashed by the will of Karl Marx to hunt down the Biker Brethren and slay them. "Cursed are you and your collective mothers, you _loin-thirsty bumper lips!_ The only reason my weapon doesn't have a name is because Motherfucking Communist Pimp Choking Rim Jobbing Crotch Crunching Monday Hating Shit Slapping Ass Biter is too long!" Garfield howled ferociously with fangs bared, charging with his comrades into battle.

Charles Barkley leaped nimbly from his perch, severing an Arab's right arm with his shimmering katana and then decapitating him with a sweeping slam-dunk. Lenin swung his heavy mace with little effort, the fag-end of this deadly weapon grazing upon Abraham Lincoln's cheek. Barkley gracefully mutilated one of the bloodthirsty velociraptors as he charged to his unarmed father's aid, lending Lincoln his ancestral katana that was a gift from Michael Jordan.

Garfield tore upon his shirt, shifting his fat and using his protruding gut to bludgeon one of the Communist marchwardens to death. Barkley and his grandfather dueled with the skinflinty lieutenant as Garfield and Cosby slew the Arabs and the rides they strode upon, piling the mouldering dinosaur corpses in a heap in which they would light upon fire for warmth in the midst of the night. Lincoln wielded his blade with grace and consummate skill, slicing majestic and curved gashes upon Lenin's forehead that formed the shape of a soaring bald eagle.

Charles Barkley disarmed the miserly dotard, slicing off both of Vladimir Lenin's skeletal hands that could create only detestable works of sin. "_Ha!_ That is but a flesh wound. Your swagger is weak and feeble! Harken unto me, for I am but a glimpse of the Communist horrors that await you. The eyes of Karl Marx see all, his reach is everlasting! His armies are advancing, our king yet again has his crown!" Lenin guffawed with the utmost pride, spitting upon Lincoln's face. Bill Cosby spared him no mercy, lifting him up by his neck and hurling this ornery fucklord into the fiery sun.

"More shall come in time, patriotism alone may not be enough to protect our American loins. We shall garb ourselves in the raiments of the enemy, a skin of evil that shall shield us from the all-seeing eyes of Karl Marx. We shall pose as a rabble of subhuman Arabs, detestable sand-monkeys of which no man shall pay heed," Abraham Lincoln spoke aloud in his heavenly speech, wrapping a towel of sackcloth around his head in which he pilfered from an Arab corpse. Garfield still doesn't realize the dinosaur he is playing Poker with is a corpse.


	29. The Threshold of Mother Russia

From the outer-lying gates of Karl Marx's sable halls hewn from obsidian, hither strode forth the swarthy warlord Vladimir Lenin. His skin charred and his body defiled, his severed hands replaced with chainsaws impaled into the stubs of his arms. His graven gaze moved upwards, Karl Marx and his royal consorts staring down upon him from their thrones.

"Is he the one who failed us, father? He is, _he is!_ He smells of gnawed skin and bone, it scrapes his flesh! Bites at his heels! He gurgles only sin from his forked tongue! Lies! _Lies!_ So I call him_ Pootie Tang!_ A foul name of which shalt shame his family! _Eats him!_ We should eats him! _Kill the Pootie Tang!_" Adam Sandler burbled savagely, only to be struck by Richard Nixon to silence this pitiable fuckling. Karl Marx stroked his stubby digits throughout Lenin's wispy hair, blood dripping down his puckered lips as he tightened his grasp around the niggard's gullet.

The wizened haggard grinned deviously, his yellowed teeth reflecting the corpse-light of this unholy dwelling. He channeled his rage and godless sorcery through the Communist-Slayer, conjuring the spirit of Sasquatch and using necromancy to summon a loathsome hell-hound from the nethermost depths of the underworld. The canine atrocity lunged for Lenin, obeying the will of Karl Marx and slaying the fuck out of him with nary a pity or remorse.

"_Sa Da Tay!_ The ancestral guitar of Lincoln has amplified his puissant leechcraft even further! Perhaps this doddering niggard is more of a threat than I first anticipated," Fidel Castro grumbled under his breath, swishing his sable cloak behind him as he stormed out of the chamber. Nixon and his malevolent assistant, Spiro Agnew, dragged Lenin's corpse out of Marx's sight to give him a proper Communist burial. Fidel Castro is frequently upset by Adam Sandler's elaborate show-tunes.

Elsewhere, the Last Alliance approached the borders of the forbidden Russian sector, a territory loyal to neither Americans nor Communists. Sonic himself had always been impressed by their culture and ancestral traditions. For even without patriotic glory and salvation, they were a revered and passionate folk, spiritually ablaze like ferocious squib. Michael Jordan had heard of the great tales and swevens of this god-fearing land, where even the most lissom of fucklings could participate in a hearty drink of Vodka and wrestle a grizzly bear to death for pride and honor.

"Now I'll tell you what, my scanners are picking up some sort of whack-ass Communist interference," Hank Hill advised the brotherhood, punching in a combination of codes into his motorcycle's keyboard to repair the severed communications. The silence of their lone journey was broken as they trod past the border, greeted by a Russian Battle Cube that was under siege by a rabble of savage Communist soldiers. Sonic turned to his brother and grinned with a patriotic fervor, crossing the threshold and engaging the subhuman Communists in battle.

The Last Alliance dispersed, joining the Russians that defended their outpost astride their soaring space-bears. The heavenly Russian bears flapped their feathered wings of ivory and gold, launching torpedoes from their gaping jaws in unison. A sable hoard of the Communist warlords piled onto Dilbert, tearing at his flesh and quaffing from his blood until he crashed into the iron shell of the Battle Cube, his body engulfed in a fiery cosmic fuckflame.

"I'll avenge ye' laddy! Prepare to have a whiff of me patriotic haggis!" Cory Baxter threatened in his native Scottish accent, veering to the right and unloading on the hoard with his dual shotguns. Mutilated bear corpses floated through the stars as these impious legions advanced, Captain Picard fending off the frontmost infantry with his Phaser-Guitar. "Slaying Communists? Sorry, there's just no market for that in this economy," Rick Harrison quipped with a pious swagger, beheading one of the dybbuk warlords from behind with a slice of his golden Katar.

The ford of gurgles and guttural snarls of Communists was parted athwart by a throaty rumble approaching from the distance. A heavenly call, slowly but surely becoming louder like a thunderous American incantation of yore. It was the angelic sound of Death Metal! It cried aloud with nary a concern, as if a trumpet had summoned it to battle. The carrier of this holy gospel was the righteous 18-Wheeler Truck of which Sonic shared his feelings, its power innate and right to rule divine.

A single tear fell from the weary patriot's eye as the ferocious Big Rig slew the Communist warlords, grinding their bones and leathery skin beneath its wheels with nary a driver at the helm to tame this beast of American spirit. Sonic swiftly took up his guitar Freedom, his brotherhood of steel joining him in song as he finally rocked the fuck out.

"_Freedom is my lady!_

Patriots, lend me your ear_  
_

_Freedom is my lady!_

Light a blunt and crack open a cold beer

_Freedom is my lady!_

She'll comb your chest hair with patriotic might

_Freedom is my lady!_

We'll be gettin' it on tonight and every other night

_Freedom is my lady!_

Patriotic lovin' feels so good, so tight

_Freedom is my lady!_

The Communist Armies she will smite!"


	30. Peaks of Mount Russia

The fiery stallion made short work of the Communist legions, the dismembered corpses of the impious carrot-snappers drifting through the stars as if some warlord of American ferocity had drizzled them with a coat of their sable loin's finest gorilla milk. The Russians dismounted their angelic steeds, circling around the Last Alliance with chainsaws roaring and eyes wreathed with flames. "So much for the fabled Russian hospitality," Captain Picard quipped, restraining himself from slicing upon their gullets and hewing off their bearded faces with his phaser.

Michael Jordan strode forth with a thunderous swagger, removing his glove and pimp-slapping one of the grizzly bears as to strike fear into the Russians' blasphemous souls. "You have no authority to treat with such righteous Americans, gaze upon thine own pitiable existence and depart back to whence you came. Forsooth, our Big Rig shall not falter to slay you and quaff from your lifeblood, you bearded peckerwoods," The mahogany warlord Michael Jordan bellowed in his heavenly speech. Rick Harrison managed to wear out his new catchphrase, "Can't fuck with my swag," in a record five hours.

The Russians warbled savagely amongst themselves, tarrying on and lowering their weapons as to not provoke such puissant Americans. The thrawn-faced spokesman amongst their ranks threw back his Ushanka, goggling upon them and tightening his loin girdle before he spoke. They could not even do the Amazon Fire to a hoofy with that pitiable shit.

"Hearken unto me, for I shall not stutter. You jive turkeys have been bestowed a great honor as to visit our tricknologic motherland, forsooth you shall be the first Americans to trod upon our soil for centuries. Our leader shall judge the fate of you west end curve-peelers," The froward Russian rasped, Cory Baxter disgusted by their tasteless babbling fraught with sins unequaled.

"You nignoramuses may be heckling now, but it shan't be so humorous when I slap the sin out of your poon-pubs and booger-hook you fuck-shwartz back to Compton," Michael Jordan jeered in a playful manner, the graven Russians clearly amazed by his ferocity and brutal linguistic skill. The Russians mounted their heavenly bears, flying down to the surface of the planet as the Alliance trailed behind them astride their righteous motorcycles.

They were guided to a deeply cloven mountain peak emblazoned with snow atop it, an ancient stronghold of rock and vale known as Mount Russia. Guarded by mighty gates hewn from silver, for beyond them was a grand corridor dolven deep into the heart of the mountain. The Last Alliance strode into the golden halls of the fortress alongside their bitter guides, invited to a grand banquet alongside hundreds of hearty Russian warlords.

Their they quaffed upon gallons of Vodka and feasted upon roasted dinosaur meat freshly picked off the bone, however Hank Hill refused to feed upon this bountiful meal. "I don't eat cooked meat, it needs to be raw and still squirming. If I had my shotgun with me, I'd go give the chef a piece of my mind," Hank Hill explained after prior being thoroughly questioned by their hosts.

As nightfall struck the land, the prideful Russians finished their meal by singing a hearty drinking song of angelic beauty, slurring their words together with drunken pride and joy. The Last Alliance sang aloud alongside them, adding their heavenly voices to the chorus.

"Chug some Vodka, wrestle a bear!  
Wear a Ushanka, throw down a chair!

Crack the plates, punch a fellow!  
Smoke this joint, you'll be real mellow!

Install this dashcam in your car!  
Follow me lads, we'll fight in a bar!

We battle for honor, we'll never croak!  
'Tis the life of the passionate Russian folk!"


	31. Bill Cosby and the Communist Rebellion

The Biker Brethren settled down for a fortnight in one of the queer Arab lodgings, hewn of clay and mud and dolven into the mountains. Garfield was busy fashioning a lasagna feast, craftily substituting the cheese with sand, and substituting the other ingredients with sand as well. Needless to say, the meal was delicious and warmed the souls of these rugged compatriots. Charles Barkley started to panic after trapping a wasp under his cup.

Abraham Lincoln strode into the pitiable dwellings in which he would slumber, pleased to see his bed was a jagged boulder lodged into the leftmost corner of the room. The coarse warlord reached into his satchel woven from Communist thigh-skin, retrieving his flask of ale that was placed next to a severed dinosaur head. Bill Cosby revealed himself from an unlit niche in the corner of the room that hid his face, scowling at Lincoln like a nignorant slag scowls at the penniless honkies who cannot meet her price in the cracker hood.

"Lincoln, if you were any other American, I'd kill you where you stand. Your detestable nignorance disgusts me!" Bill Cosby scoffed while goggling upon the rugged patriot, tossing his guitar on the ground in disgust. Lincoln's wispy chest hair quivered in the moonlight as he turned to meet Cosby's hostile glare, "Cosby, surely you know better than to chastise a tempered American demigod with your noisome slang. What is the meaning of this negromancy?" Abraham questioned calmly, unknowing of his accusations.

Bill Cosby crinkled his nose in annoyance, "Don't pretend that you do not know of which I speak. I saw you during the skirmish with those savage Arabs and Communists, you were enjoying slaughtering them! This quest has grown far past the pursuit of mere self defense and American liberation! Art thou loins not girded? What happened to the idealistic American man who dreamed of peace between our two races? Has war corrupted and defiled your soul like the sodomous carrot-snappers of yore?" The mahogany warrior inquisited with a hostile swagger, gyrating his hips to and fro as he trod nearer.

Lincoln stood upright before the wizened Cosby, gritting his teeth and clenching upon a wad of barbed wire to calm himself and lower stress. "During my tarrying as a Communist soldier, I learned secrets of our enemy that few patriots could comprehend. Their subhuman culture has grown in strength and divinity, shedding the sins and sodomy of their forefathers and coming to the light. There is a rebellion in its infancy to overthrow Karl Marx, they yearn for the teat of Lady Liberty's wisdom to learn our ways! We must now fight alongside them in their righteous quest," Bill Cosby prophesied in his guttural voice, however Lincoln refused to believe in such an optimistic future for the savage race.

"_DAMMIT,_ Bill Cosby! They're not people, they're Communists! They've taken my family, my honor, and _everything_ from me except for my patriotism. I refuse to believe they have any hope of redemption. The line must be drawn now! Freedom is like diarrhea, _it never stops!_" Abraham Lincoln roared with the combined ferocity of ten thousand grizzly bears, brutally pimp-slapping Bill Cosby across the room with nary a concern.

Cosby parted his chapped lips, licking off the blood trickling down his cheeks with his forked-tongue. "...I should have known that you hoofy-macking nignoramuses wouldn't help me. Slaying Communists shan't un-kill your family, Lincoln! I shall seek the hood of the only person here who still has any sense: _myself!_" The jive turkey Cosby gurgled, storming out of the hut and departing off into the desert. Garfield and Charles Barkley decided the only way to kill the wasp was to burn down the house, and they were right.


	32. Flashback: The Death of Tupac Shakur

The fall of the Americaverse began when the three races waged a grievous war against eachother. The Americans, a prideful and spiritual folk, donned their raiments of wrought iron and quaffed from their liquid democracy. From within the mountains they dolve deep, forging motorcycles and silver phalluses mounted upon pikes of which they craftily called "swords". Otherwise, it would be gay.

Many of the demigods, last of the ancestral line of patriotic deities, departed into the deathless lands of the White House. However, the most righteous among them stayed to fight for the patriotism and liberty denied them. Among this heavenly alliance were Tupac Shakur and his eldest son, _Abraham Lincoln._

A bloodthirsty breed of Communists known as Nazis were soon bred by the thundering warlord that commanded them, born from the godless love of virgin men and Sasquatch. They worshiped he who waits beyond the veil of sanity graven and still, bearer of the torch whose flame is shadow. He who perpetuates the torture of the damned, and sings the everlasting song of death upon the living. The faceless king reclaims his throne stained of the blood of those who denied him patriotic grace and divinity; of which are life's greatest lies.

The withered husks of those who deny his right to rule are the testaments of his cruelty and malice. They now feel only pain, robbed of their right to perish unless he so commands it. He is clad in swart raiments hewn from the suffering of the unborn and imbued with the blood of the sleepless dead. He is _Adolf Hitler!_ All shall hearken intently upon his noisome speech, they shall worship him and eternally despair! His right to rule was truly divine, and he strode forth with his subhuman armies of the godless to reclaim the heavens of which he was forbidden.

Therefore his armies fell upon the Americaverse like a black wind over the sea, kin-slaying every man as they crawled out of their subterranean dwellings of wretched sodomy. Thousands of warlords and great men of patriotic swagger were lost or dragged off and tortured by their insurmountable foes, but the righteous Tupac stood erect and graven such as a tower whose house endured a mighty storm. "There are no brakes on the freedom train! Choo-choo, motherfuckers!" Biggie Smalls roared, using his ghetto sorcery to close the gaping portal to the underworld of which Hitler's armies poured from like flittermice.

The impious armies of the damned and Americans alike fell silent as Adolf Hitler rose from the raging seas of magma from underneath the surface, tremors erupting like thunder as he tread upon our sinful earth. All who gazed upon his twisted and misshapen face would be eternally cursed, his relentless hatred for life and malice haunting their collective families and defiling the corpses of their restless dead. However, Tupac Shakur stood still and unflinching, beaming like a lone star amongst a raging storm of Nazi fuckery.

Hitler unhinged his gaping jaws like a ferocious serpent, swallowing Americans and Communists alike and impaling their mouldering corpses upon his fangs. Tupac Shakur unsheathed his gleaming guitar, of which shone bright and pale such as a shard of ice. His mail was overlaid with silver and glistening ivory, cold and deadly like his spirit. He crinkled his nose in disgust at the impious warlord, fearlessly staring down the common enemy of all free men.

George Washington sympathized with their noble quest to douse the unquenchable flame that was a proud Nazi warlord, using all of his grace and patriotic divinity to create mighty feathered steeds known as the eagle kinsmen to smite his exiled son. Tupac swung gracefully with his heavenly guitar, severing the arm of the colossal fucklord and casting him back into the abyss. The mightiest of the eagle kinsmen, _Freedom-Song_, descended upon the former-deity and slew him without pity or remorse. The Communist legions soon crumbled, crawling back into the festering void from whence they came.

Tupac Shakur the Holy was praised throughout the land for his valiant effort, growing feeble and miserly with the passage of time. His servants and closest friends, Biggie Smalls and Snoop Dogg, accompanied him on his final journey as he traveled to the angelic White House at the end of his days. However, they were ambushed by a rabble of subhuman Communist fucklings led by the vengeful Karl Marx and his mightiest servants. They fought without honor, slaying them all upon the gates of the White House and quaffing from their lifeblood.

For committing such a detestable act of sin, George Washington cursed Adam Sandler to become a hideous, subhuman wretch while still in the womb. Thenceforth, Abraham Lincoln vowed to break the bloodline of Hitler and restore honor to his family at whatever the costs.


	33. The Pity of Hank Hill

An immeasurable throng of sordid Communist ambassadors pooled into the obsidian chambers of Karl Marx, each unsanctimonious dotard swaddled in priceless raiments of mail overlaid with chalcedony and gold-pressed latinum. Karl Marx raised his chalice of curdled hellhound blood, gesturing for his concourse of guests to sit at an iron table that was around two furlongs in length. Among this wicked council of villainy were Friedrich Engels, Leonid Brezhnev, Ho Chi Minh, Leon Trotsky, Che Guevara, and Gary Busey. Karl Marx told Adam Sandler to sit in the corner and not act like the hollering fuckmeister he usually was.

"My Communist brotherhood, a most noisome news of mouldering bootymancy has graced our ears. The last alliance, an ancient order of which was smote eons ago by our ancestors, has risen once more! We are gathered here to combat this growing threat, and do what must be done to extinguish these subhuman Americans," Marx bellowed before them, furrowing his eyebrows in annoyance as the ambassadors before him gurgled throatily amongst themselves out of fear and confusion.

Hulk Hogan 7, the most recent clone of the original Communist chieftain who loyally served alongside Hitler, ferally tore off his shirt and slammed his fists upon the table. "The solution is most simple for an all-seeing necromancer such as I, so I doubt you taint-soaked chunks of flotsam would understand. We must prepare the drawing ritual to resurrect the most feared Communist warlord of all: the carrion lord, _the faceless king!_ The sleepless wraith of whom I speak is _Adolf Hitler_, an accursed name of which strikes fear into every American and makes their loins pucker!" Neil Degrasse Tyson burbled pompously, for the arch science-wizard of the Communist dominion thought very highly of himself.

Mao Zedong frowardly rose from his seat at the fag-end of the table to stare down Tyson, "Pious hogwash spouted by a tomnoddy as usual, hast thou forgotten the holy code of the thug life written by Eddie Murphy two centuries ago? Rule thirty-seven, paragraph five states that deity resurrections are impossible!" The distant relative of Big Kim Jong Un chastised with his Communist wiles, grinning from ear to ear as to flaunt his grill fraught with sodomy stains.

"And you're forgetting appendix eighty-five, chapter nine: I have the right to slap your shit!" Neil Degrasse Tyson threatened defensively in a guttural snarl, hoisting Mao Zedong up by his gullet and brutally shanking him with his notched science dagger. After an exceptionally drunken night, Adam Sandler has finally finished his third erotic novel.

Elsewhere, Sonic and Michael Jordan strode throughout a sprawling labyrinth of corridors to enter the nethermost depths of Mount Russia. They came upon the hallowed halls of Grand Nagus Putin, dolven deep within the mountains centuries prior, twin sculptures of admirable Russian warlords running athwart from Putin's blessed throne. The graven and uncovered muscles of this imposing Nagus pulsated with divine swagger, his abs emblazoned with self-inflicted scars formed in the shape of the hammer and sickle to assert his dominance. His natural musk echoed throughout the hall such as graceful Opera, his eyes brazen and cold.

His throne stood as an eyot atop a river of magma, doggerel phrases branded upon the skulls of his concubines that failed him. He donned his gold-trimmed Ushanka, standing daunting and erect before his American guests. Sonic and Michael Jordan tore off their own shirts as a formal greeting, their utmost confidence and righteous patriotism unrivaled. As was tradition, these hearty patriots were to deliver a gift unto Putin as a sign of their goodwill to these ignominious Russians. The heavens thundered as Michael Jordan performed a divine hamboning ceremony, the rhythmic slaps upon his chiseled chest and mahogany abs echoing throughout space and time. Putin was thoroughly impressed, puckering his chapped lips and applauding their show of innate skill.

Rick Harrison and Hank Hill decided to bide their time at a Russian bar, drinking away their sorrows over a flask of ale. "Now I'll tell you what, I want the most expired, curdled drink you have. Whatever tickles my innards," Hank Hill spoke in the voice of a besotted drunkard, talking to the bartender that was a firm-muscled beast with golden hair known as Winnie the Pooh. The enigmatic bartender stepped behind the counter, handing Hank an acidic, sallow liquid. He heartily threw it down in one gulp, licking his lips before speaking, "That's a mighty brew, fit for a patriot. What do you call it?"

"Son, what you just drank was my urine. Piss and Americans like you have alot in common. They're bubbly and proud on the outside, they bow before no man. But once you indulge in them, they can ruin your life. And the worst part? Once you drink enough, you actually start to like it. The last time we Russians had dealings with your people, it took us centuries to rebuild. They even killed my son, Christopher Robin," Winnie the Pooh grumbled throatily, refilling Hank Hill's mug. The rugged patriot couldn't help but pity the Russians, their people slayed in droves by Communists centuries ago. By the time the American armies arrived to help, their motherland laid in waste and smouldering desolation.


	34. The Demise of Richard Nixon

Garfield tore his stylish smock asunder from righteous anger, chugging down his seventh frothy glass of Jagermeister in one gulp. The Biker Brethren had scoured and hobbled throughout the desert for nearly a fortnight in search of Bill Cosby, such as derisory footpads looting graves and cultivating no piety. The weary compatriots trod into the ramshackle valley of Somalia, a godless territory fraught with Arabs and the sodomous enemies of American freedom and divinity.

Bill Cosby creaked open the oaken door to his dwellings at the zenith of a forsaken watchpost he had claimed by squatter's law, startled at the sight of two swarthy cloaked figures at his doorstep. The black riders flung back their hoods, revealing the graven, scarred faces of Richard Nixon and the impious chieftain swaddled in the pelt of Sasquatch, Spiro Agnew. Nixon strode forth with a detestable swagger, brandishing his chainsaw-guitar as he circled around Cosby. Like any virile American male would, Garfield has outlawed hugging during this week's recreational cannibalism night.

His forked tongue danced around the twisted surface of his chainsaw, Cosby's reflection gleaming off of the cracked blade as he stepped forth. Abraham Lincoln's braided chest hair quivered in the rising sun, a sign as old as the Americaverse itself as a warning of forthcoming disaster. Honest Abe unsheathed his katana like the warlords of yore, following the direction of his erect chest hair to track down Bill Cosby. The Biker Brethren performed graceful parkour leaps and maneuvers, scaling the daunting watchtower in a matter of moments to arrive at Cosby's aid.

Garfield crinkled his nose in disgust at the repulsive sight of Nixon, their fallen ally who strewn the American heroes away like emptied bottles of Vodka in favor of his Communist sodomy and shame. Nixon curved his chapped lips into an unsanctimonious smirk, impaling Bill Cosby from behind with his chainsaw just to spite the Americans. Cosby shakily fell to his knees, roaring into the rising sun like a true patriot as his lifeblood pooled into the leftmost corner of the chamber. Legions of vicious wolves and godless hellhounds joined him in his throaty song, joining hand in hand over the horizon to honor this fallen warrior of American grace.

Clearly outnumbered, the philistines Nixon and Spiro Agnew fled and leapt out of the window like pitiable cowards. Lincoln collapsed to his knees, cradling Bill Cosby's desecrated body in his arms, stroking the wispy hairs upon his head. "_Abraham,_ my closest friend. Forgive me as my final wish, for I have committed detestable acts of sin against you and America. That is my burden to bear, a shameful baggage of which I shalt carry throughout the next life. Cry out for me Lincoln, roar into the night to warn the warlords of the afterlife of my arrival. Honor my memory by living as I once did, righteous and faultless. _Zippity zop zooboo zoo..._" Bill Cosby murmured with his dying breath, fighting until the very end for the words to escape from his lips and every other orifice. He fell limp in Lincoln's arms, robbed of his graceful life.

Abraham Lincoln wept upon his body, clutching Cosby's final Pudding Pop in his calloused hands and devouring it whole. "_NIIIXOOOOON!_" Honest Abe sobbed and howled into the stars, his guttural words echoing throughout the land like thunder for eons to come. Freedom-Song and two of his kinsmen plummeted from the heavens above, coming to the aid of the Biker Brethren to fulfill the ancient blood-oath of their forefathers. The brotherhood of steel leapt from a lone balcony at the topmost point of the tower, landing atop their pious eagle steeds as to ride them into battle.

Nixon and his wicked assistant hijacked an Arab Dinosaur swaddled in the cosmic space armor, escaping into the arid sands devoid of life that cloaked this forsaken moonbase. Garfield gracefully swept down astride his eagle steed, Liberty-Hymn, slicing upon the beast's scaly hide with his Chainsaw-Nunchucks. The man-cat was drenched with a freshet of curdled dinosaur blood, licking his lips with pride and patriotic fury. Spiro Agnew gurgled savagely in a throaty roar, his grenade launcher ejaculating a barrage of squib-like explosives at Abraham Lincoln.

"Take my freedom, and shove it up your ass!" Abe Lincoln quipped, catching the grenades between his teeth and spitting them back at Spiro Agnew. The only thing comparable in grace and ferocity was having a heated arm-wrestling competition with Ron Paul. Agnew's mutilated body was strewn across the desert, the eagle kinsmen pecking at his remains to gain his strength and courage.

Abraham and Charles Barkley leapt atop the gargantuan beast, charging for Richard Nixon with guitars unsheathed. Lincoln spared this heinous fuckthain no mercy, severing Nixon's guitar in two with his katana and brutally pounding him into submission with his fists such as a blacksmith tempering smouldering metals. Nixon kicked his patriotic opponent to the ground, looming up before him and retrieving his dagger. Flames ran down the blade of this accursed shillelagh, a godless light that shone to all but illuminated nothing.

"_Old fool!_ My hour is drawing nigh, dost thou not recognize damnation when you see it? Flee into the eternal nothingness that awaits you and your kinsmen!" Nixon threatened savagely, shakily grasping his dagger almost if he was hesitating to complete the dark deeds of Karl Marx. Lincoln turned up his nose and heartily laughed at his pitiable show of mercy, a great wind befalling this land as Abraham confidently rose to his feet. "_Your dagger is broken!_" Lincoln commanded in his thundering voice, and without a single finger laid atop it Nixon's blade cracked and shattered.

Nixon whimpered and shook in horror, scrambling backwards as Lincoln trod forward. "You would not slay me, you dotard spawned from the godless love of Tupac Shakur and a harlot! Your words are poison, your swagger is like that of a pitiable fuckling! You would never slay a fellow American, especially one you fought alongside in battle!" Richard warbled and spat, being hoisted up by the calloused fingers of Honest Abe. "Freedom is blind, Dick Nixon. _Fuck you, I'm Abraham Lincoln!" _Honest Abe roared, crushing Richard Nixon's skull and hurling his ruined body into the desert for the buzzards to feast upon.

The three members of the Biker Brethren stood graven and still as the land was benighted, lowering their heads to mourn the loss of Bill Cosby and their former ally._  
_


End file.
